How to: Fly with an Infant

The first time we ever flew somewhere with Asher, he was 6 weeks old and had both parents on hand. Our pediatrician gave us this suggestion: "Take twice as much stuff as you think you need--bottles, toys, diapers, tylenol. Be prepared for anything." The trip was uneventful, so we hauled around a ton of stuff that we didn't end up using...but I was definitely prepared for anything.

I've flown by myself with Asher twice since then (once to Florida and once to Alabama), and let me tell you--it's a whole different ball game when you don't have the other parent (or even just another adult with functioning arms) to hand the baby to. Roomy family restrooms are nice for changing diapers, but what do you do with the baby when YOU need to pee? (The answer is "hold them." Weird and gross.) How do you manage to get through security when you have to take the baby out of the carrier or stroller and hold him WHILE you fold everything up and put it on the xray belt? (The answer is "slowly, and with much perspiration and under-your-breath swearing.") And eating? Just forget about eating. Think of it as a way to shed some of the unwanted postpartum poundage.

But the mother of all questions is, WHAT in the name of everything holy do you do with a baby who cries THE ENTIRE TIME they are on the airplane?

Oh, I was prepared. I had every single one of Asher's favorite toys. I had teething rings and bottles and pacifiers galore. I bounced him, rocked him, sang to him (another bonus for the people around me), offered him cash, and prayed.

Nothing worked.

I apologized over and over again to the people sitting next to me, but what good did that do? You know what it's like to be trapped at 35,000 feet with a screaming infant writhing in his desperate mother's arms...I'm pretty sure that was one of the circles of hell described by Dante in The Inferno.

So what did I do? I ate a York Peppermint Patty. And as I crumpled the empty wrapper in my hand, ready to stuff it into the seat pocket in front of me, Asher stopped whimpering. He looked at me, and looked at my hand. I gave him the wrapper. And for the final 30 minutes of the flight, having rejected every.single.toy.he.owns, my darling child played with the shiny silver wrapper shucked from my peppermint patty.

On the flight home, Asher had both parents at his disposal again. Both parents, and a crinkly wrapper from his daddy's Mike-N-Ikes. He was a happy camper. Fly-er. Whatever.

So, my revised travel tips go something like this: Buy your favorite candy bar at the shop across from your gate. Eat the candy and give your kid the wrapper. Enjoy the flight. You may never buy another toy again.