Layover

22 pound infant.  27 pound toddler.  Double stroller.  Backpack.  Shopping bag.  Wheeled carry-on.  Diaper bag.  Max’s backpack.

That’s what I had with me.  There were only 2 hands.  Mine.  Only one parent.  Me.

This is the price of an extended stay with my mother.  We live 3,400 miles apart.  There is no direct flight between Spokane and Miami, so the best I can do is a 2-stopper.  My husband flew over with us, so our family of four had a row to ourselves on the way there.  Jack is still young enough to stay on our laps.  (In truth, he is too old to stay on our lap.  He is the wiggliest wiggleworm I have ever met, so he basically crawls and squirms over all of us.)  The flight to Spokane had the advantage of two parents, the novelty of airplane rides and excitement over seeing Nana.

Andres could only take a week off from work, but my schedule is wide open.  Miami is miserable in August.  It’s so hot and humid that I’d compare it to a Minnesota winter in terms of feeling trapped inside for weeks on end.  The expense and difficulty of hauling two young children across the country made a week seem too short a payoff, so I stayed an extra 2 weeks with just the boys.  The only catch: I had to get them home alone. 

I hemmed and hawed about which flight to take, but I eventually booked a short commuter flight from Spokane to Seattle and a red-eye from Seattle to Miami.  My hopes were that the boys would be so sleepy they would pass out on the flight home, plus I don’t change diapers in the middle of the night, so I wouldn’t have to manage that logistical nightmare in the airplane bathroom.  (Side note to Mile High Club members: Yuck. What I have to do and what you choose to do in that cramped, rarely cleaned space should definitely be mutually exclusive.)

Our adventure began at 6 pm.  After dinner and bath, I dressed the boys in their jammies and headed to the airport.  This is the time we usually go to the nursery for bedtime stories, lullabies and sleeping.  I’m very strict about bedtime much to the chagrin of my in-laws.  My kids do better that way and honestly, my shift doesn’t end until they’re asleep.  By the time seven rolls around, I need my day to end.  At the airport my mom and I uninstalled the car seats and packed them in their bags.  At check-in the airline employee was very particular about weighing my bags and I know if I was an ounce over she’d charge me for it.  Luckily, I had covertly stuffed my heavy items in my carry-ons, so I only got charged the standard rip-off of $20 per bag.  A sobbing good-bye to Nana, a long wait as security inspected my TSA-allowed baby liquids, and I loaded myself up like a mule and trodded to our gate. 

The boys had fun looking at the planes and trucks.  Max excitedly pointed to every vehicle and named it.  Jack fell in love with a businessman and kept crawling over to him and charming him with his smile.  I don’t think he was a baby-person, but Jack’s determination could not be stopped.  Eventually the man gave up on his newspaper and made goo-goo eyes with my baby.  I sat quietly breathing and suspecting this was going to be the most peaceful part of our trip.

The airline employees helped us board the plane and promised that someone would be there to help me in Seattle.  I’ve taken this flight before and my connecting flight is either in a neighboring gate or in another terminal altogether.  I gave myself a 2 1/2 hour layover in case of a problem.  Everything was going just fine until other people started boarding the plane.  Out of nowhere Max got demanding, Jack got fussy, and I got the you’re-a-bad-mom-and-you’re-ruining-my-flight glares from strangers.  I did my best to calm the boys, but honestly, not reacting to tantrums is usually the most effective response with my kids.  It may look like I’m doing nothing, but I’m actually shortening the duration of the ordeal.  I kept hoping the plane would start moving, because I knew that would distract the boys from their seat belt misery. 

“This is your captain….”  Those words are never good news before takeoff.  Maintenance.  Should only be 15 minutes.  Oh, God.

More squirming.  More struggling.  I broke out the backpack with toys I was saving for emergencies.  Better.  Maintenance was actually achieved in 15 minutes.  Even better.  Take-off drove the kiddos to the back of their seats and awed them into silence.   Keeps getting better.  The flight was actually gorgeous, over the Cascade Mountains at sunset.  A full moon cresting on the horizon.  A view of the Puget Sound at dusk.  A perfect glimpse of majestic Mount Rainer when we landed.

We stayed on the plane while everyone else exited.  Max was upset about this as he wanted to, “Walk, walk, walk!”  Two flight attendants helped us off the plane.  I told one that there was supposed to be help for me to transfer flights.  She assured me to just wait.  Eventually, I heard my name being butchered as someone hollered down the gateway.  After a few minutes of confusion I connected with the man who was assigned to help us.  He was in his late thirties and seemed nice enough.  He spoke in an overly loud voice and got fixated on minor details in our conversation.  I think he was not quite there mentally, but he knew his job.  Thank God he was there because our connection was in another terminal.  He lead us down an elevator, onto a train, up another elevator, and down a hallway.  It would have been hell to do it on my own.

Of course, all this leads to a big, “but….”

There was something a bit off about him.  I felt uneasy when we were alone in the elevator and on the train after the other passengers exited.  I’m sure he is a good person, but we didn’t have cable for a year and I saw way too many episodes of Criminal Minds on one of our seven channels.  There was a little sense of creepiness which I’m sure was all in my head.  Nevertheless, I was happy to say goodbye to him when he dropped us at our gate.  I noticed there were no other employees around and the lights were dimmed.  The shops and cafes were closed.  It was about 9 o’clock.  Our flight was scheduled for 10:30.

The first thing I did was drag us over to the family restroom so I could change the kids, take care of my business, and discover I gotten my period a week early.  Fabulous!  I cleaned us all up and plodded back to the gate. 

The kids weren’t tired.  Max wanted to get out of his stroller, empty his backpack of trucks, and run around like a wild banshee.  Jack rubbed his eyes, but just couldn’t let himself fall into slumber in the midst of so much excitement.  I let them loose figuring it was better to let them burn their energy out, so they would rest on the plane.  I also needed to save my arms for flight.  No, I wasn’t planning to flap my arms to Miami, but holding grumpy wiggleworms for hours is no easy task.  They were actually pretty cute, but it was nerve-wracking and exhausting to keep them in line.  Because it was so late, they were on edge and the slightest interference in their plans was met with the utmost resistance.  

“Hey, can you watch my bags for me while I go to the bathroom?” a twenty-something girl asked me while the TSA prohibition against doing just that played in the background. (Seriously, I’m not making that up.) 

“Well, I can’t be responsible for them,” I hedged.  It felt so awkward.  I’m a rule-follower by nature, and although I knew this girl wasn’t a terrorist, I was uncomfortable.  Throughout our conversation I kept alternating between keeping Max within a catchable radius and trying to prevent Jack from ingesting anything he found on the floor.  My own stroller and luggage were woefully neglected.

“It’s really heavy,” she said, pointing to her shoulder bag.  Yes, it was a shoulder bag and an oversized purse.

I looked at her.  I didn’t know what to say.  Strike that.  I knew what I shouldn’t say.  One glance around the room and you could see our fellow passengers, singles and couples, reading books, texting or zonking out.  I was the only one with small children literally running around.  And heavy?  Did she not see me schlep my kids, my double stroller and my FIVE HEAVY BAGS over to the restroom earlier.  Stunned, I remained silent.

“I’m pregnant,” she said as if that explained it all.

“Congratulations,” I said, then I ran after Max and left her to figure out her dilemma on her own.  She walked herself and her bags over to the restroom and made it back just fine.  I actually did feel some sympathy for her.  I remember being so exhausted during my first trimesters and needing help that no one realized.  I once laid down in the middle of a field and took a ten-minute nap when my husband and I were walking our dog, because I was just SO TIRED.  I also flew across the country while I was seven months pregnant with Max a few hours after I had fallen down our porch’s cement stairs and was SO UNCOMFORTABLE.  But really?  Out of all the people sitting around she thought that I was in the best position to do her a favor?  Really? 

When an employee finally arrived at the gate, I asked her to block the empty seat in my row.  I had cleverly booked Max a window seat and myself an aisle seat, hoping nobody would chose the middle seat between us. 

“Oh, I can’t” she informed me.  “Someone is already seated there.”

“Is it a full flight?  They told me that seat was empty when I checked in earlier, but only a Seattle employee could block it.  There were seven seats open then.  Are you full now?”

“No,” she said.  “There are still a few seats open.”

“Well, can you move that person?”

“Well, no.  I can’t,” she said. 

I gave her my pathetic look.

“I guess, I could ask them if they wanted to switch seats, but if they say no….”

“Trust me,” I said.  “Getting someone to not sit in between a lady with a crying infant on her lap and her screaming toddler near the back of the plane during a cross-country red-eye flight is not going to be a problem.”

And do you know what?

It wasn’t.