Flying with the Big Boys

It’s Christmas vacation, and Kirk and I are on the plane to Costa Rica with Ethan, age six, and Alex, three.

“Free at last!” I say. We’ve arrived. No more travel with diapers. Gone are the days when we schlepped a stroller, Bjorn, car seats, and diaper bag. My husband and I have finally made it to travel with Big Boys. It seems like the only things we bring for a long airplane flight now are DVD players.

This morning, as we waited in the security line, I spotted a poor mommy who woke her sleeping baby, wrestled him out of his shoes, hoisted him from his stroller, and shoved his transportation through the machine. I smiled at her reassuringly. It wasn’t long ago that I was in her position, trying to dump formula while simultaneously shouldering a diaper bag and a screaming baby.

Then I remembered a trip we took last May.

We were on the first leg of our journey from SFO to Chicago. Just as the plane took off, Alex’s face got that faraway “I’m filling my diaper” look. He was trapped, however, not only by the straps of his car seat, but by the rules of air travel: The seatbelt sign was illuminated. I was already on it, sussing out how to sneak him into the lavatory without getting the stink-eye from the flight attendant.

“Mommy, I have a poopy diapee!” Alex shared with the plane.

“I know, my sweet. We’ll change it in a minute,” I lied.

A minute went by, and another. The plane leveled out. Alex whined, “Mommy, can you change my diapee?” and I thought how I would feel in his position. Stinky, uncomfortable, and unable to remedy my situation. Alex cried, “Mommy! My tushie is hurty!”

After we had been airborne for 20 minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore. I unstrapped Alex and hoisted him into the aisle. We fumbled our way to the back of the plane where we were, indeed, met by an unwelcoming flight attendant.

“The seatbelt sign is illuminated,” the attendant snarled.

“My son’s been sitting in a dirty diaper for 20 minutes,” I said.

“Too much information, ma’am.” He dismissed me with a wave. “Please return to your seat.”

“I know you’re looking out for our safety, but he’s getting a diaper rash!”

“There’s no changing table on this aircraft,” the man said with a sneer.

I pushed the lavatory door open. It was true. The flight attendant grinned, seeming to enjoy his victory. Mercifully, someone pushed the call button, and my adversary scuttled away. I winked at Alex and pulled open the flight attendant’s jump seat. I whipped off Alex’s diaper, a little nervous about being caught. The poop looked glued to his tush and fell off him like a helmet. I wrapped the mess up, careful to leave a little something for the flight attendant, and left the diaper and wipes in the jump seat before folding it up. High-fiving Alex, I whispered, “This is our little secret.”

We returned to our seats and I promised myself that in a year, I would laugh about the whole thing.

And here we are, a year-and-a half later, en route to Costa Rica. I do laugh at how far we’ve come. In fact, I find myself gloating over our little victories against toddler-hood. Alex, zoned out, watching Jungle Book, gives me a thumbs-up. Yep, we’ve arrived. Maybe if this Costa Rica trip goes well we can go someplace farther. Like India or Australia.

“Mommy! Something’s wrong with my movie!” Alex suddenly screams. The battery light on his DVD player blinks. His headphones are on, so he doesn’t realize the whole plane can hear him wail. “If my DVD player’s broken, I’m getting off this plane RIGHT NOW!”

He kicks the seat in front of him. I guess I shouldn’t be so smug.