The fear, and small victories, of flying with kids

The fear, and small victories, of flying with kids

Do you know what I really hate about flying with kids? It’s not the hundreds of tiny plastic animals that erupt from my son’s Trunki and find their way down the front of my shirt. It’s not the awful foil-wrapped plastic tray food that somehow lands up in my lap instead of my mouth. It’s noteven the woefully inadequate baggage allowance (thousands of plastic animals tend to weigh a lot) carriers offer these days. No. What I hate about flying en famille is my co-passengers. There are two kinds of co-passengers: those with children and those without. And I hate both of them. The ones with children have the same dazed look in their eyes until they see you. And then the look changes to one that’s more challenging. It’s a look that says “Game on, bitch. Let’s see whose kids areworse behaved.” These parents are the ones who will offer you faux looks of sympathy as your children play human ten-pin bowling down the aisle while their spawn do flash cards in French. Of course, I choose not to engage in such petty battles, and instead allow them to win by default and send up a quick prayer asking the God Lord to see fit that their kids barf all over mommy’s iPad. Those flying solo and couples whose travel plans do not need to make allowances for buggies and binkies though invite my wrath. These people are the ones browsing in book shops while they wait for their plane to begin boarding. As they buy OK!, Hello, and other airport lounge guilty pleasures, I am busy trying to stop my son from boarding a plane to Vizag. And then there’s the ordeal that is boarding your actual flight. Getting on the bus service with two kids, buggie, backpack (because ofcourse you wouldn’t be caught dead with a blue and pink diaper bag) and aforementioned Trunki is only slightly easier than trying to find your seats on the plane. I know. I know. I chose to procreate. TWICE. And then, to make matters worse, I chose to fly alone with my kids instead of insisting that their father accompany us because, in my own words “they’re only children, how hard can it be? I mean I’m not flying with flesh-eating alien spores.” No, no. Flesh-eating alien spores are much easier to control. Of course after all this drama you finally fasten your seatbelts and what happens? The gentleman in row E has the temerity to fall asleep. Sleep. Something so precious on land and here is someone who has the gall to fall in to a state of somnolence even before we’re airborne. If that wasn’t bad enough, there are the women who clearly follow Vogue’s ‘How to travel in style’ section, because of course beige cashmere is the only thing one should wear on a Boeing. So while I’m dressed in the standard not-so-yummy-mummy uniform in ‘this season’s must have shade of sludge’, mom jeans and shoes bought in the ‘Podiatrist’s recommend’ corner of the shoe store, I am forced to watch attractively dressed women sashay down to the aisle to their seats. I can’t say for sure which I find worse. The purgatory that is air travel with one’s children. Or the constant reminder that I too was once a smug, solo traveler who used to look down my nose at the deranged looking woman running after a half-naked toddler in the lounge. It would be remiss of me if I did not mention my small moment of satisfaction as the plane began its descent. My soon to be four-year-old in all his wisdom decided that it would be funny to stand up and dramatically shout “Ahh! Save us! Help! Oh no! The plane is crashing”. Loud enough to wakeup the man in row E and have the fashion plate ahead of us clutch her LV. Cheapthrill? Yes! Worth the stern talking to from the head steward? Totally.