Fight of Flight
By Tiffany Lewis

This world was not built for children.

Airplanes, grocery stores, malls — none were created with children in mind.  If they were, grocery store shelves would be built five feet off the floor.  There would be childproof gates in front of porcelain stores in the mall.  Airplanes … well, I’m not sure airplanes would exist at all.

I have flown solo with my two boys several times.  The last time was at Christmas, when my younger son Addison was just over a year, and still not walking.  It was a great flight.  I actually said, direct quote, “That was so much fun.”  Strangers remarked on my angelic children.  I chalked it all up on my list of motherly accomplishments.

Until my latest flight to Texas.

Now Addison is 18 months, with so much energy you can almost feel the magnetic field shooting out of his red hair.  Jackson, who’s three, is more subdued, but put him in the right environment, and like baking soda and vinegar, you get an eruption.

We got off to a good start, three of us wedged into two seats.  (Yes, we’re too cheap to pay for that extra ticket until we absolutely have to.)  Twenty minutes into the flight Addison looked at me and announced, “Seat. All done!”  Just then the captain came on, saying we had just over two hours left of flying time.  I took a deep breath.  This was going to be long.

Flying with children is akin to sitting in stake conference for three hours, except there are no speakers, no standing musical numbers, and no escape foyer.  It’s a recipe for disaster.

After cheese sticks, fruit snacks, two sippy cups of apple juice and Bitty Bear Picks Pumpkins, the boys got down to the serious business of completely annoying each other.  I finally wedged myself between them.   Jackson started scaling his seat, much to the amusement of the entire airplane audience behind him.  Our blessed neighbors entertained him with great patience, until he spewed them repeatedly with his own spit.  Then all they could do was hold up an airplane blanket for protection.  

Addison, deliriously tired, banged his head on the plexiglass window and threw his body around, smashing into tray tables, arm rests, and my head.

This was only the first flight.

During the layover Jackson ran down the hall like a human airplane.  He had a plastic band around his head that read “2 Pk Letter Tray”.  Addison threatened mutiny if I didn’t let him out of the stroller.  Once released, he immediately ran for the computers behind the gate check-in counter.  Then he headed for the emergency exit.  He was halfway down the jetway to Santa Fe before I caught up with him.

On the second flight the man next to us lasted about five minutes before tactfully suggesting that maybe we needed more room.  I could have handed over my entire stash of fruit snacks in appreciation.  That third seat made all the difference.  Now my kids had real space to wreak havoc.  I gave them a SkyMall Magazine, which they immediately ripped to shreds. It gave me five minutes of peace, so I didn’t stop them.

The magazine desecration reached a climax when the boys began lobbing pieces over the seat in front of them.  I watched in horror as the bits rested like falling snow in the hair of a sleeping woman.  I confiscated the magazine and all its pieces.  Addison, furious that I intercepted his fun, grabbed the hair of the sleeping woman and yanked it as hard as he could.  It was, for the record, her real hair.

The plane ride did come to an end.  Strolling down the jetway into Austin, Texas, I felt a bit like that magazine, tattered and all in pieces.  

Since then, I’ve been conjuring in my mind the dream airplane for children.  I’ve heard motherly testimonies about the personal TVs that come with every seat on JetBlue. Those would be nice, but I’m thinking along the lines of a large open area near the back of the plane filled with buttons, preferably the kind that don’t ring the flight attendant to your side.  Or even just a designated children’s section.  They could call it Kid Class, and it would be behind a soundproof barrier so all the kids could join together in an ear-popping chorus of screams. They’d hand out sippy cups of apple juice and crackers instead of peanuts (choking hazard) and ice-filled plastic cups (major spill hazard).  Instead of magazines promoting personal hot dog cookers, the seat back would be filled with Sandra Boynton board books.  I’d keep the motion-sickness bags, since they make nice puppets.  The bathroom would feature a full-sized changing mat, so parents wouldn’t have to tackle dirty diapers on an area the size of a tray table.

It’s all a dream really. An impossible dream. Which is why, next time, I think I’ll take the train.