Traveling . . . with Children

The insanity which prompted us to fly our three children, ages 6, 3, and 14 months across the country from California to Florida was simple: fly the kids and go through one day of pain vs. seven days of a cross country trek in our car. This way, we figured we’d have the least negative impact on the fewest number of people.

I have to admit experiencing a fiendish sense of delight when we got them up at 4:30 a.m. All those nights the little devils woke me up for requests for sustenance and comfort all came into startling clarity when I charged into their room when it was still dark out and insisted it was time to wake up and have some fun. My husband and I had been up since 4 a.m., packing the car and making sure we were ready. By the time 4:30 a.m. rolled around, I was in a chipper mood, cranked on coffee and adrenalin. As I gently shook my oldest awake, I whispered, “time to go on the airplane!” in an upbeat voice.

Needless to say, we got all three of them dressed and into the car without waking up the entire neighborhood. Lugging two car seats through the airport didn’t even get us frazzled. Even going through security was a relatively painless exercise, as the chance to take off his shoes particularly appealed to our middle child.

Once on the plane, the excitement mounted. The shades went up and down a few times, and they settled in to anticipate the pleasure of take off and landing, not to mention the sunrise. Then . . . they were absolute angels the entire trip.

OK, OK, you think I'm bragging. But my brother and sister in law traveled over the Thanksgiving weekend on Kindergarten Air, so I have to shout out to the world that my kids uncharacteristically resembled winged cherubs with halos on this trip.

I’m not making this up. The youngest slept almost the entire time, and each of the older two also indulged in naps. The markers, coloring books, view finder and other paraphernalia stayed (relatively) in their assigned containers and not one shrieking incident occurred. Not one. The mini sized bags of pretzels were a hit, not to mention the choice of beverages. We hit a bad patch when our oldest had to throw up, but even that was managed with a minimum of fuss. He made it to the bathroom in time, if you can imagine our luck.

Layovers? Piece of cake. I mean, hey, there was a train to ride, a machine to stick the tickets into and, get this, sidewalks that moved. Our 3 year old couldn’t have been more pleased. He practiced his hopping with great success at the end of the moving sidewalk, while our oldest amused himself hanging on to the handrail. Our youngest watched enviously from his stroller. Only the lure of yet another plane ride could get them out of the Denver Airport.

Our fellow adults on the plane were frightening. Oh, we didn’t mind their obvious trepidation as they saw us board. We didn’t even mind the frantic looks exchanged between one pair as we settled in behind them. (Later they told us they’d never seen such well behaved children.) But the people I sat next to presented a bit of a challenge.

The young man on our first leg seemed friendly enough. I mean, he wasn’t working, wasn’t in school, and was returning home from a trip to Hawaii where he had engaged in a soul searching trip to “find his inner self”. A perfect conversationalist, we could chat about anything. He’d never seen a child this close before, he confided, and certainly never imagined that they had such cool clothes. (The baby was wearing blue jean overalls and a red collared shirt.) Then he spilled his coffee. I didn’t mind that it was all over my pant leg, honest. It didn't get on the kid. More importantly, it didn't wake up the kid. But did he have to spill it all over my diaper bag? Thankfully, the diapers were spared. Never mind that the wipes got dunked.

On the final leg of our journey, I sat in a row with a very nice woman who didn’t even give me a scary look when I plopped in my seat with my sleeping infant on my lap. Later, I was to discover why. It would have taken a massive loss of cabin pressure to faze this gal. The fumes drifting across the row were enough to knock me out, never mind if I’d actually sipped from the innocent looking bottle of “iced tea” she’d brought with her on the plane.

We landed safe and sound and were met by adoring grandparents at the gate. By then the baby had woken up and was thrilled to stretch his legs. And, if you can imagine, the kids didn’t even attempt to travel the length of the luggage carousel. A perfect trip.

I’m considering calling Wringling Brothers to see if they have enough room for a freak show act.

Neighbors, then and now

Before you had children, neighbors were people you waved at on your way going in or out of your front door. If you were really lucky, you had similar taste in music. And if you were super lucky, they were the kind that brought by baked goods because, at the end of a tough day at the office, they knew you were too tired to bake.

Now, that I have children, my neighbors are people to be avoided at all costs. I live in an old house that was divided up into two living spaces, with a separate townhouse in the back that we share a backyard with. There are also neighbors on either side, with about 10 ft. between their houses and ours.

One evening, the doorbell rang and it was my neighbor and her fiancé. After exchanging greetings, she expressed dissatisfaction with our noise level in the mornings. She explained to me that our dining room window must be located by the window right next to their bedroom window, and at 7:30 a.m., just as she’s hitting the snooze button on her alarm clock, she could hear me yelling at my oldest to brush his teeth. My oldest leaves the house at 7:45 a.m. for Kindergarten.

Another day, my other neighbor (from the townhouse in the back) met us on the street in front of my house and asked if I couldn’t keep our kitchen windows closed, “just until 8 o’clock in the morning”.

Yet another neighbor expressed her dissatisfaction with my parenting skills one balmy Saturday at 12 noon when she came out in her nightdress to fetch her newspaper. She greeted me with the question, “Did you see what the kids did to the lemon tree?” My oldest had climbed the tree the day before, and a broken branch had fallen on the path. She apparently found it too uncomfortable skirting around the broken off bough before she had her morning coffee. Seeing as it was about 5 cm in diameter and about 2 feet long, I failed to see the humor in that one.

And my absolute favorite was the morning I answered the door, and my neighbor who lives in what she refers to as “the cottage in the back” (it’s a converted garage) was on my porch. She was stopping by, you see, because we apparently left our outdoor light on the night before, and it shines right into her bedroom, and then she can’t sleep.

Oh. And the neighbor I share a wall with? She comes out when she sees us playing in the backyard and sits with us, just to “enjoy the company”. She gets a plate of brownies every time I bake.