Flying with Mom

Written by Jennifer Redmond

Humor

Most published work on traveling with kids focuses on the kids. Little people are traditionally not the easiest to tote from here to there. I've written my own piece on the subject (see Family Car Trip) and Inspired Mother has more to come from other authors so be sure to check the magazine home page soon. Traveling with children is apparently a hot topic.

But what happens when mom is actually the problem?

My family just found out. They had more than a glimpse of my travel persona this past week, when a business trip/vacation became a quest to make sure I did not get lost and/or embarrass the rest of them. Happy to report I made it to and from safely, though my children loathe to admit any genetic relationship to the woman who just seems to mess up the simplest of tasks.

Like flying. Sure, being a passenger sounds simple, but there are all of those incidental things to remember, like finding your way to the actual aircraft. You know, getting on the bus with the correct luggage (not falling over it) and locating the proper terminal. There are so many. And what about these huge airports? The moving sidewalk thing? I just don't get it. My husband-quite the savvy and often impatient business traveller-is just horrified that I'm "one of those people" who just can't comprehend the fact that one is supposed to move to the right side of the moving sidewalk when one just intends to stand still and, well, move right along like George Jetson. Hey, I'm lucky to get on and off the thing without tripping. Don't ask me to dodge those pesky women in suits toting their cool rolling luggage.

Then there are the escalators. My companions complained that I have a habit of riding to the top, stepping off and stopping. While I am immersed in the decision-making process (left or right?), there is a pileup behind me of annoyed passengers. They know where to go.

And believe it or not, some people also know how to manage the impossible check-in process. Where we're from, the airport has handy lanes specially created for each distinct group of travellers: 1) frequent air travellers who know the ropes and have no patience with the rest of the world 2) travellers who aren't as confident but can read signs and have some intelligence 3) travellers with small children and strollers, large groups of non-English speaking nomads, and those who are absolutely clueless. We were in this line because of me, the clueless one.

Now I guess I can understand why my husband was irritated that I had a lengthy visit with the TSA official over the cactus jelly packed in the carry-on luggage. Yeah, that's a "gel" over 3 oz. so it should have been in a sealed plastic bag in the checked baggage. Oops. Into the garbage it went. My in-laws will certainly understand. And misplacing my boarding pass was not good either. But I found it before the doors were shut so all was well.

Then we got on the plane. I managed to sit down without incident, as did my children. (By now they were completely denying my existence.) The plane then soared off into the wild, though rather bumpy, blue yonder. This is my favorite part of air travel.

Except that everyone is so grumpy these days. When the very unhappy flight attendant tossed me some crackers and a Coke, I promptly spilled the soft drink. I sopped up the liquid with the itty-bitty napkin provided and bit into a cracker. Uh oh. It crumbled and dropped down the front of my dress. The earthy woman in the window seat beside me- a backpacker obviously accustomed to travelling from one continent to another with a supply of granola bars-appeared mildly annoyed as I squirmed around trying to move the crumbs from one body part to another. (This transfer doesn't mean more comfort, by the way.)

I decided it made sense to move to the lavatory to take care of this task. Now, is there anything more obvious than a person standing up on an airplane and walking toward the bathroom? Really, if you want to be inconspicuous, forget it. Yet I made it rather unobtrusively and arrived just in time for the "fasten the seat belts" light to flash on, making the entire maneuver so much more fun.

Returning to the seat should have been simple since I had less than ten rows to pass. How could I possibly not be able to find the correct seat? (Well, considering I routinely lose my seat in theaters, it's not a big stretch.) I only passed the row once before locating my husband's plaid shirt at the end of the aisle. Whew!

Time to relax. How about if I just recline the seat? Oops! Granola lady didn't appreciate being abruptly launched into an upright position. She sighed, then wearily showed me where the button was for my seat. As I gently eased the seat back into the knees of the man behind me, my right sandal broke. The top came completely unstitched from the bottom. Super.

My husband's eyes were closed for the rest of the flight. And though he did step aside politely to let his sticky, shuffling wife exit the plane first, he quickly took the lead as we made our way toward baggage claim, muttering something about it being safer to be ahead.

As for my children, they're still laughing about how Mom is actually the littlest kid they know.