Travelling Solo In An Airplane With A Wild 11 Month Old

In a sane world, there might be some general rules for How To Manage Squirrely Babies When Confined In Metal Tubes Hurtling Through the Stratosphere. I imagined such a world when Tobias and I decided to take Espen on his first plane ride at 6.30am in the morning.  That meant getting the baby up at 4.50am and carting him off to the airport in his moose jammies whilst feeding him a bottle on the way as he tried to figure out how the heck his mum and dad were awake before him.

We had done our internet research. We had milk, toys, and snacks to amuse him and keep his ears equalized.   We were prepared to walk the aisle, do cartwheels, and apologize to angry AM fliers.  What we did not anticipate was Espen not just liking the experience, but going mental with delight.  That’s a lot of wiggling, people.

To his credit and the airlines', we were assigned the seats JUST behind first class due to his baby status, and possibly the everlasting dismay of the first class passengers.  A small rant: If you're going to shell out the dosh to travel first class, for godssake, do it on transcontinental flights, but save your money on those four-seat commuters.  You'll still hear a baby through the flimsy curtain dividing the posh from the status quo.

Espen, was in FINE form at 6.30am.  Between the two of us and the extra leg room, he had free reign to squeal and ooh and try to pry the plane apart at the seams.  Having a baby means discovering a world you never thought to notice.  For example, did you know that there are plastic strips that hold parts of a plane together that a baby can, with sufficient diligence, remove by prying out the screws? Espen did. Terrorists don't need bombs, they need infants.

There were no tears the entire flight.  The kid was over the moon.  

Our time at Manhattan Beach consisted of Espen deciding to embark on an epic marathon across the sands, whereby he could sample the fine subtleties of sand textures available at different locations.  With his mouth.  Can babies expire from over-consumption of sand? Espen was earnest about finding out.  He shoveled handfuls of sand into his mouth for ten minutes straight, despite my efforts to substitute bananas for sand. He was not tempted at all. Not even a little.

After five days of delightful frolicking beneath piers and throughout the Getty Villa, Tobias headed to Vegas for a conference and Espen and I prepared for our solo air adventure back home.  

 

Here's the thing. Never underestimate the cumulative effect of carrying a baby, a backpack, and a suitcase, even if it has wheels.  Even if you think you're travelling light, take a moment to consider how this can play out.

Say your flight gets delayed, twice.  Say you then need to give a wild baby snacks and sips of water.  Say he spills water all over himself and manages to grind banana into every fold of his clothing.  Say you need to dig out fresh clothes and change him right there in the middle of the airport because there's no way you'll get his wet, slimy self to the bathroom without needing to change yourself as well.  Say you know exactly where all the necessary items are to perform this clothing slight of hand.  Say that you must simultaneously keep said baby from trying to lick the garbage can, rip everything out of the carefully organized backpack, and yell baby pick-up lines at the Syrian refugees trying to find their connecting flight on the monitor above his head. Say things like this happen for the entire time you are waiting for your plane to finally start boarding.  

If you feel tired reading the above paragraph, imagine doing it all with a bouncing forty pounds strapped to your upper torso whilst trying to maneuver a suitcase that now has a plastic shopping bag full of toys hanging from it that occasionally fall out, because it was far too complicated to try and shove it back into the backpack AND keep the baby from ripping off a rabbi's dangly tassel things in the coffee line.  

All I'm trying to say here is, I will be travelling with a manservant, maidservant, and/or husband from here on out. 

Espen thought it was all splendidly fun. He practiced his parade wave when I took him strolling up and down the aisle, yelling "HEY!! HEY!!" at both sides equally. Someday when he has children of his own and calls to tell me stories like this, I will smile and nod and go take a nap, just from the nostalgia of it all.