Red-eye

This is the continuation of a post I wrote about a month ago about my cross-country red-eye flight with just myself and my two sons, ages 11 months and 27 months.

We were a good 5 1/2 hours past the boys’ bedtime when we finally boarded our connecting flight, from Seattle to Miami.  Max and Jack were alert and hyper, but also on edge.  The excitement of boarding the plane kept them distracted for a while, but as we sat and sat and sat while the other passengers filed in, they started to lose it.  Jack squirmed and fussed, unable to get comfortable.  Max knew what would make him comfortable: if Jack and I would just leave them the entire row of seats so he could stretch out.  Not possible, but that didn’t stop his size five feet from nudging me out of the way.

I had prepared for this.  Actually, I had strategized for months.  I sewed surplus receiving blankets together to make a cover and wrap for our seats.  I lugged Max’s truck pillow, beloved stuffed animals, blankies and blankets around two airports for this very purpose.  The boys were dressed in their pajamas and I was already worn out.  They fussed, they hemmed, they hawed, they squirmed, they clung to me and simultaneously pushed me away.  Their volume increased.  Fellow passengers glared at me.  I recalled a news story of a woman being thrown off the plane because she couldn’t calm down her baby.  I couldn’t remember how that story ended.  I did my best, all the while knowing my best would be inadequate.

Take-off slammed my babies back into their seats and knocked the fuss right out of them as it always does.  After a few minutes of stunned silence, I was able to settle them both down into their makeshift beds in the sky.  I leaned back and closed my eyes, hands resting both of them in case something should go wrong.

That is the exact moment when tooth #5 decided to pop through Jack’s gum.

I didn’t know that at the time.  All I knew was that every few minutes Jack would cry out in his sleep.  This would wake Max and they would both clamor to be held by mama.

That was the one and only time I regretted having my children so close together.

Normally I love the fact that their ages are so close together.  When Jack was born, it took Max less than a week to forget life before his brother because his memory was so young.  They are best friends and watching them play together is the sweetest joy of my life.  I like the fact that we live in Baby World right now.  We are completely immersed in feedings, naps, tantrums and toys.  One day we will all leave diapers in the dust together.  We will be able to do family activities and vacations which are suited to both of our children.

But on that jet, I felt like a failure.  Each of them was tired, confused, scared and in need of mama’s arms.  They both deserved to be single, held tightly and loved.  Because I am not an octopus, that was not possible.  I know it sounds stupid to bemoan just a few hours.  I know I did my best and we muddled through it.   But babies don’t understand that kind of practical logic.  They know, “I want mama.”  It broke my heart not to be able to give them that.  They each got half of my attention, half of my strength, but in the strange math of motherhood, all of my love.

At about 5 am the boys were finally in a more-or-less sleeping phase.  I closed my eye once again, only to be immediately told by the captain that we would be experiencing serious turbulence for the next half hour.  I tightened the seat belts arouound  my little ones which woke them up, of course.  As we bumped and jerked I made a game of it, all the while, white-knuckling through the ordeal.  Parenthood brings fear to every flyer.  It’s not that I had more to lose should we crash; I had everything to lose.

After a half hour or so the plane stabilized enough for an expedited breakfast service.  We munched on oatmeal cookies.  Milk for Jack.  Milk and juice for Max.  Coffee I desperately needed, but knew I was to tired to benefit from for me.  I guzzled down the hot brew as quickly as I could, afraid another bump in the sky would would slosh it over the kiddos.  Maybe the caffeine did kick in, because I felt much better at that point.  The end was in sight.  I could get off that claustrophobic plane, made more claustrophobic by clingy children, and fall into the arms of my husband.  And then,

“This is your captain…” interrupted my happy anticipation.  “There are storms around Miami right now, so they have closed the airport.  Don’t worry.  We’ll just circle around it in a holding pattern.”

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was suddenly reminded of being in labor.  The pain I felt didn’t come close to giving birth, but there was that horrible sensation of having reached my absolute maximum and still having more work ahead.  I wanted to throw a tantrum now; it seemed like my turn.  It’s just not fair!  I had done my part.  I did it by myself and without complaint, but I did not have an extra hour in me.  The natives grew restless.  I had planned on changing their diapers upon landing, but since I no longer knew when that would be, I took advantage of the unlit return-to-seat light and headed to the bathroom.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage the logistics when a flight attendant assumed that I expected her to help.  She held on to my shy, sullen Max and he was too confused to protest.  I quickly ducked inside and took care of Jack’s and my business, then traded babies and took care of Max.  Utter relief when we returned to our seats.  To be honest I was just thrilled to have burned 7 minutes of not having to entertain my kids.

“This is your captain…” Lord, not again.  “Good news, folks.  The opened the airport.  We’ll be landing on time.”

First ones on means last ones off.  I loaded myself up like a Sherpa and pushed my double stroller, 4 bags and 2 babies up the inclined sky walk and down the long corridor with my last bit of strength.  As soon as I saw my husband, I ditched it all and ran into his arms.  It felt so good to be home.  But as I brushed by his face and into his embrace, I noticed something troubling: the blood-shot eyes of a man who had not slept a wink.

“You were up all night?”

“Don’t get me started, the cabinet guys didn’t show up until eight,” he said.  The kitchen was being renovated in my absence.  “I wouldn’t let ’em leave until it was done.  They were there until 2:30, then had to get to the plumbing.”

So there we were: two middle-aged parents with four red eyes between us and two babies with four bright eyes clamoring for our attention three feet away.

It took us a week to come up for air.