Infant on a Plane: The Ridiculously Friendly Skies

My wife recently gave me terrible news. We were back in Boston with Gus to attend her best friend Peg’s wedding. The event itself was excellent; equally tear-jerking and hilarious, as these things tend to be, and my wife was the maid of honor. She gave a stirring speech about the bonds of their friendship and there was nary a dry eye in the house.

But I was crying inside for a different reason. See, I had recently found out that Bixie had to fly on business to Denver from Boston, instead of flying across the country with me and Gus back to San Francisco.

A well known equation explains this dynamic: Dad + Infant + Airplane – Mom = Terror.

Those of you who don’t have infants may not know or remember this: you fly with the baby IN YOUR ARMS the whole time. And a typical flight from Boston to San Francisco is almost six hours! That’s like:

**Watching two whole NFL football games back-to-back.

**Driving from Boston to New York – and halfway back.

**Cooking an 18-pound Thanksgiving turkey. TWICE.

Six hours with a crying, pooping, screeching infant in your arms. On a plane. And no escape. Nobody to pass Gus off to for a sanity break or, for that matter, a bathroom break.

I could tell from the reactions of Bixie’s mom and sisters that I was in deep trouble. There was lots of nervous laughter when they found out I was flying solo, as if I had announced at dinner that I intended to quit my job and pursue a career as a salsa dancer.

“You’ll be fine,” they finally said, smirking at one another. “Really.”

Fast forward to the day of the flight. Checking through security with Gus was dizzying. Normally I’d just unbuckle my belt, pop off my shoes and take my laptop out of its case. Done. But this was something else entirely. It was like a test of memory and agility and organization, with the added bonus of a line of impatient people behind me, crowding me and (I’m sure) judging me a hapless parent.

I literally talked myself through it: “Take the bottles of milk out of the baby bag so they can scan it separately; collapse the stroller and feed it through; turn the car seat upside down; do NOT put Gus through the conveyer belt; CRAP – MY BELT!; Please don’t cry, Gus, it’s okay!; CRAP – MY SHOES!; Where’s my cell phone?; It’s okay, Gus, YAY!; Why is the car seat NOT GOING THROUGH?; Sorry, people, my wife had to go to Denver!; CRAP, WHERE IS MY CELL PHONE?!; Oh no, where’s my boarding pass? WHERE’S MY BOAR – oh, here it is; It’s okay, Gus – we’re going to Boston – YIPPEE!; Why is this car seat NOT GOING THROUGH THIS GOD DAMNED X-RAY THING?!; Look, Gus – a nice police man! Look at the nice police man!; Crap –MY CAR KEYS!”

And so on.

Since Bixie was also booked on the flight (but wouldn’t be on it), I walked up to the JetBlue employee at my gate holding cute little Gus in my arms. It was Bixie’s idea to try to guilt them into letting me keep her seat by showing off Gus when I asked the question. If I succeeded, it meant I could sit my baby in his car seat next to me for the trip, versus holding him in my lap like a sack of octopuses.

The JetBlue employee eyed me suspiciously and then Gus smiled at her.

“I think we can work something out,” she said in a sing-song voice, smiling at Gus. “We can give you the whole row in the back of the plane, right next to the bathrooms.”

I squeezed Gus so hard at that moment that I think I made him break wind.

“It’s a Christmas MIRACLE!” I yelled. I really did say that, and I really did yell.

But JetBlue was just getting warmed up. When I got into my own private row at the back, me and Gus were immediately greeted by two delightful young Flight Attendants. Turns out they both had young babies of their own, and they were smitten with Gus.

“We’ll take good care of you today,” said a gal named Cynthia. “Gus wants to hang out with us in the back, don’t you Gus?”

Boy, did Gus ever!

Instead of an anchor on my lap (that I was expecting) Gus was transformed into the unofficial JetBlue mascot on that flight from Boston to Oakland, and I swear to God no fewer than 20 different women passed Gus around like a Botox brochure at an Anti-Aging Convention. A steady drumbeat of ladies, young and old, stopped by to ask me how I was doing, how old Gus was, and how far I was flying, etc.

I must have seemed pathetic to them. Like I needed to be rescued. And can I share a little secret with you? That’s exactly what I was trying to project! Whenever a woman walked down the row toward us, I’d kiss Gus a few times on the forehead and then turn my eyes upward pathetically, pleadingly.

“Would you mind if I held him for a minute?” they’d ask.

I’d pause for a minute as if considering what was best for the child. “Sure, I don’t see why not. Hopefully he’s not too cranky . . . I think he misses his mother.”

Jackpot.

Just as we were disembarking on the first leg of the trip in Long Beach, stellar JetBlue Flight Attendant Cynthia tapped me on the shoulder and asked what was my final destination. I told her I was destined for Oakland.

“Well, I have good news for you. This is the plane you’ll be flying there, and I’m going to be working your flight.”

It gets better.

“So feel free to leave your bags right here, and when you get off, tell the person at the gate to set you up with a good seat. I can tell you right now that there are 27 empty seats on that flight. See you in an hour, Gus!”

I did as instructed and was rewarded with an upgrade to the first class section of the flight. Seat 3C. Full row. Extra legroom. Right at the front of the plane for easy disembarking. Jackpot.

Gus ended up napping for the entire second flight, so he was unaware that another handful of women were cooing at him during his slumber, complimenting his good looks and cuteness and good behavior. They also told me, nearly all of them, that I was doing a great job.

You might be thinking, “yeah, a SNOW job!” And you might be right. When I called my wife between flights to tell her I was being treated like a rock star, she said it was “so not fair” that she didn’t enjoy the same treatment when she flew solo with Gus. And she was only half kidding. In fact, I think she was dead serious.

The funny thing is, the fear I had about flying alone with Gus was very real, until JetBlue employees and a community of loving ladies rushed to my aid. Or maybe they all saw me as a slam-dunk chance to snuggle with a cute baby (because they knew I’d welcome it, whereas a mom *might* get offended at the request).

Either way, it may be sexist to assume that a father is somewhat disadvantaged when it comes to dealing with an infant on a long flight. That we don’t have the coping skills for the chaos.

But I also happen to believe it’s true, and that I’d have been a wreck were it not for the overwhelming kindness of strangers.

Happy Thanksgiving, all you ladies I met in the clouds!

**And to JetBlue, I think you just nudged ahead of Virgin America in my book.

Got a story you’d like to share about flying with babies/kids? I’d love to hear it.