By Tanya Kuzmanovic
Originally published in Today’s Parent magazine – October 2008
Last year, my husband, Brennan, and I joined the mile cry club – not something on our to-do list, but something we can now cross off. Just before Christmas, we packed up our girls, Adelaide, 3 1/2, and Millicent, two, and flew to Australia to join Brennan’s family for a visit with his grandparents, who live outside of Sydney. The idea of lugging two tots on a long journey – Toronto to Vancouver, Vancouver to Los Angeles, Los Angeles to Sydney – instilled panic in my heart. Millicent is a fussy child, to put it mildly. I worried about how she’d handle the gruelling trip and how the other passengers would handle her objections. But I figured, why worry about what could happen?
On the first flight, crayons, cartoons, picture books and stuffed animals amused the girls for one hour. Then Millicent began grumbling. As her grumbling turned into shrieking, the pitying looks from fellow passengers turned into stony glares. Brennan and I tried to calm her but, sadly, neither of us is an exorcist.
Things got ugly when a man told Brennan to “shut your kid up.” A heated exchange ensued, and just as I had visions of Brennan being met by a taser upon landing, another passenger defused the situation, reminding him that kids are kids, and the ogre in front of us wasn’t worth getting riled over.
On the second flight, Adelaide happily chatted with our neighbours, while I coaxed Millicent into a light slumber. But the lull was short-lived, and her renewed shrieking prompted a woman to march down the aisle to tell me “you really need to drug your child.” Ticked off at her self-righteous tone and too embarrassed to tell her that I had, in fact, already given Millicent an approved dose of Gravol, I responded rudely. She returned to her seat and didn’t bother us again.
Things settled for a while. Then the crying started again. Over the next few hours, whenever Millicent would squawk, the woman sitting in front of us would pause her in-flight movie, tear out her earphones and turn around and glare at us until Millicent, with much cajoling from me, would settle. Then it would begin again. After the fifth round, I gave the woman a piece of my mind – which at the time consisted of incoherent shouting.
While waiting to board our third and final flight, I realized what it must feel like to be Britney Spears, with all the finger pointing and whispers. Most of the passengers had been on our earlier flights, and they seemed eager to get a look at the pariahs who’d wreaked havoc in mid-air. After takeoff, Adelaide nodded off and I noted with relief that Millicent’s wailing wasn’t as spirited. But still a harried flight attendant, at her wits’ end due to complaints about Millicent’s fussing, asked me, “What is wrong with your child?”
In Australia, I put the experience behind me and avoided thinking about the trip home. As Brennan said: “It can’t be any worse.” He was right, it wasn’t . . . just about the same.
To be fair, most people were sympathetic. There was the couple who loaned us their hand-held DVD player complete with Elmo movie, the woman who sang to Millicent as she let loose her demons, and the calm reassurances of Adelaide who would wipe away her sister’s tears while whispering, “Ssshhh. Everyone hates you.”
I still believe in not fretting over something that could happen. And I’m certainly not going to let a combined total of 24 hours of awkwardness, 60 minutes of screaming and a handful of rude comments deter my family from enjoying a fabulous vacation. And a word of warning to all airplane baby haters: Millicent is taking to the skies again this Christmas, so beware.