Now Departing

As a reminder, this is a completely full flight.

Fancy yourself a risk-taker? I’m not talking free climbing, basejumping, skydiving adrenaline junkies. I dare you to fly coach with kids. This adventure is the Murphy’s Law of parenting. Think of the worst possible scenarios, and there’s a good chance it could happen between the terminal and the destination jetway. My daughter literally projectile vomited on a woman’s head on a connection to Dallas. This was after she yakked in my lap and all over her only set of clothes. This is the moment when you promise yourself to never judge another parent again.

But overall, we’ve been lucky. Both my daughters have boarded countless flights, starting at only a few months old. It’s fairly easy at first, actually. Infants are a sleepy blob on the plane, fueled by the loudest white noise machine ever. As long as they’re sucking on something so those ears pop, you’re in good shape. Plus, babies are cute and your fellow passenger or flight attendant will give you a pass (and maybe an extra Biscoff cookie!).

As they get older, though, it gets tricky. They’re fussy, fidgety and flatulent. I’ve been that guy walking up and down the aisle with the cropdusting kid, gently shushing their shrieking cries, shielding those burning glances from 13B and 21F. Yes, I realize it’s annoying and bothering you’re private screening of Forrest Gump, but this isn’t my choice. Grab some more pretzels and turn up the volume. Remember, life is like a box of f^&*ing chocolates.

The next think you know, they’re running around the cabin and touching random people in the elbow between seats. They stand on the seat and stare awkwardly to the back of the plane, making faces at all the bathroom goers. They marvel at the seatbelt functionality, rip up the barf bag, and knock over that flimsy cup of water on the minuscule tray table. Over and over again. Kicking the back of the seat becomes forbidden treasure as the person in front does everything to not blow a gasket. And a trip to the bathroom ends with blue toilet dye splattered over my shoes.

In between snacks and tantrums, you begin to find the quiet moments, letting them peruse the evacuation instructions and in-flight editorial. Wow, Boise does have a lot to offer for families this time of the year! You close your eyes for 17 seconds, finding a moment of relaxa….BAM! Beverage cart direct shot to your elbow. Well, that was nice while it lasted.

Fast forward to present day. I’m writing this 35,000 feet over the earth and my kids are zoning out to iPads, it’s eerily quiet and I’m dangerously content. In a way, I’ve earned this. We’ve offered our fair share of bodily fluids throughout the friendly skies and have lived to write about it. Flying has become increasingly annoying and inconvenient in our generation, counter to the technology-driven, frictionless culture we’re used to. And traversing the airways with kids has seen almost zero evolution. It’s just hard. Even now, as I’m basking in the cloud glow through the small oval window, I know this is short-lived. A baby is on the way, and we’ll start from scratch. Flights will be delayed, diapers will be filled and apologies to my fellow passenger will be plentiful.

“Pretzels on me!,” I shout to no one particular on the plane. At least I’ll always have my dad jokes.