flight attendants won’t let you jump out the window, trust me

There are some places where having a baby in your arms comes with perks. Like when you’re in a line and everyone insists on letting you cut to the front. Or walking around Manhattan, where you’ll be showered with compliments, smiles, and friendly conversation. (I’m assuming there comes an age where the cuteness wears off and civilians stop oogling, so I’m milking it now. No pun intended. Maybe it’s when the kid starts throwing tantrums and juice boxes).

There are also some places that you really don’t want to be with a baby. Like in an airplane lavatory. Next time you’re feeling claustrophobic in there, ask yourself how you would maneuver that one with an infant. I was asking myself the very same question a few days ago. But life finds a way.

Everyone kept asking how it was flying with a baby so here it is.

Now I’m that person that everyone dreads to see coming onto the plane. Me and the 400 pound man. I see dread fill their faces as they start obviously praying that I won’t sit anywhere near them, casually placing their own items on the seats next to them and avoiding eye contact. Then I get the pleasure of choosing the sucker who will get to know us very well.

The flight from LA to London is 11 hours. I spent 7 hours or so walking and rocking around the plane, letting Mason look at all the interesting sleeping people. Then I noticed that I was being trailed. An 11 year old girl cradling a doll was following me around the plane, copying how I held Mason. I stopped walking and she came 8 inches away from me, staring at us as if that was a normal thing to do. I began holding Mason in strange ways just to see if she really was mimicking us. She was. I was tired and cranky and found this terribly annoying. So I sat in my seat and pretended to be asleep. She stood there next to us, still staring. Finally I decided that she was too old to play with dolls and thought maybe she was slow. I felt sympathy and tried to be nice to her. This exposed a huge character flaw I never knew that I had. I resolved then, to be nice to people even if I don’t assume them to be mentally retarded.

So I did the nice thing to do. “How old is your baby?” I asked.

“Six months.” Then I saw the pencil width gaps between each of her teeth and knew that she’s probably not going to get those fixed, and felt even more sympathetic.

“What’s her name?”

“Jasmine.”

Then the conversation proceeded with me convincing her not to touch Mason’s hands or face. Which is a good thing because she started scratching herself in her pants right in front of me as she continued talking. My doubts about her mental capacity returned. You just can’t have a normal conversation with a stranger when they have their hand down their pants.

Anyway, having a baby on a plane is hard. So many mothers told me “he’ll just sleep the whole time; that’s what my babies did” so I had hope. But M doesn’t like flying or driving. He likes rolling and playing. I had already spent 15 hours flying with him and he was sick of it. He was good at times, and a Chucky doll at other times. When he gets strapped in or cooped up, he goes renegade and tries to muscle his way out. Those times were the worst. All peace offerings were rejected. He would try to wiggle out of my arms to get to the floor; thinking about it now is painful. It got scary. So scary in fact that it inspired me to write a screenplay called Snacks on a Plane, based on what it's like to feed a baby applesauce in your lap on a bumpy plane, because it's the only thing that can distract him long enough from screaming so much the captain is forced to do a nose dive. The best part is when he feels the applesauce in his mouth with his fingers and then tries to grab your hair with a fistful of baby food/drool mix.

And yes, lady I see you staring at us the entire flight. This is not the time to tell me about your grandkids or compliment me on how cute my daughter is. And please don't touch him.

My advice is: bring a helper. Toys and snacks are good. But if you have an active baby, it’s too much to do flying solo. When they told me my stroller would be at the baggage claim and that I'd have to carry Mason and all our carry ons through customs I cried. I was so tired.

Now that we’ve arrived in London and gotten some sleep, he’s suddenly Mr. Cheerful back to his merry ways. I'm recovering too, but man that was hard.