Karma was not on my side going into this.
I used to be the guy with the furrowed brow and angry eyes, glaring at the parents with the baby as they strode nervously down the plane aisle. “And what important appointment does this baby have,” I would selfishly wonder, “That would justify imposing this human siren on the rest of us suffering passengers?”
Righteous fury would increase as the flight commenced and the inevitable screaming began. “Why aren’t they doing more to calm their baby!” I would mentally ask, expecting at least some rocking or, perhaps, an entertaining nursery rhyme. And more importantly, “Why are they even here in the first place?”
I never actually did or said anything, of course.
And for this, at least, I can be grateful now that the baby shoe is on the other foot.
—–
There’s a man walking at high speed past the stores and restaurants in Alicante’s Elche airport. He is moving faster, perhaps, than any other passenger. He’s zooming between couples, looping around suitcases. Is he late for a flight? Has he lost his passport? Has he lost his mind?
He isn’t pulling a suitcase. But look closer and you’ll see that he is pushing a small, black pram. And from the pram emanates a noise; a harsh, guttural wailing, a shriek of despair and rage and frustration that rises above the jet engines and boarding announcements and turns the blood to ice in the veins of all who hear it.
I am the man pushing the pram. And that screaming little girl is mine. I am walking fast because the motion distracts her, lulls her into sleep.
At least, it normally does. Maybe it’s too noisy here? Maybe she doesn’t like the air. The pram is small, agile, lithe, I push it with one hand. I zig-zag and throw in some forward and back pivots, hoping the complex motions will help.
Flying past my peripheral vision as I hurtle around are normal people. They sit at bars. They drink beer. They read books. They talk. They are able to be still.
They used to be me.
—–
“Baby fly with mama?”
We’d split up at security; she took the folded-up pram, I took the baby. In the shuffle of laptops, liquids, trays, and tantrums, we find ourselves separated by a few other passengers.
Little one in my arms, I walk towards the security scanner. The agent is a stern-looking woman, mid-forties, dark hair, dressed in the usual TSA-esque kit.
She surveys me with some apprehension, as if something doesn’t add up.
I answer her question flatly. “Baby fly with me.”
“Where is mama?” She asks, looking confused.
I’m already stressed out, and this interaction has now fired up my new-Dad pride.
“Why does that matter?” I ask in a manner that I hoped was firm but not petulant.
The woman shrugs and waves me through. This is probably more a matter of her not understanding my English than her respecting my paternal authority, but I take it as a win.
—–
I hold her in my arms, facing outwards, as we board the plane. My hands are large and serve as a comfortable pillow for her. She is calm. She makes eye contact with a grandma behind us in the queue. “Aye, babicito’ the old woman says, smiling. She performs well, charming the passengers, melting their hearts, turning wary looks into warm smiles.
She is a person. I remember now. Not simply the screaming machine that I was desperately pushing around the airport just minutes before. She my daughter. A creature of a mere few months old but wise beyond her weeks.
My wife sits down first, then I hand the baby to her. We strap her onto my wife with the seatbelt extender. Toys are produced and waved, rattled, and gyrated in front of her face.
Our flight is delayed. The tears begin. Subtle at first. More of a grunt, an animalistic, guttural noise, like you hear a the zoo when monkeys are arguing over the ownership of a banana. It isn’t so bad, yet, but we know what’s coming.
The grunting soon turns to wailing, the wailing turns to shrieking.
I am holding her now, bouncing her up and down as much as I can in my arms without elbowing the elderly gentleman sitting next to me, staring furiously at his phone. I bounce her harder, murmuring to her, cooing, singing, pleading.
It is not working. The shrieking deafens, drowning out every other sound in the plane.
The people in front of us have turned to stare. Their faces are kind, sympathetic, even, at least when they lock eyes on the red-faced baby. Their quick glances at me, the one holding the weapon that has disturbed their peace, are perplexed. “Why is this small baby on the flight in the hands of this large, hairy man?” Their faces ask.
There is only one thing to do. The baby is returned to my stressed-out wife. A breast is produced. The baby latches. Silence. Relief.
We haven’t even taxied to the runway yet.
