How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane

by Johanna Stein

  *Although I fancy myself a genius of the MacArthur magnitude, I am not a trained medical professional; please take everything you read here with a Donald Trump–head-size grain of salt, and talk to your own doctor, do your own research. I am not—I repeat, NOT—to be trusted. Thank you. Now carry on.

  †Anything, that is, except for the sound of my parents enjoying sexual relations.

  *Dream feeding: the act of bottle or breast-feeding an infant while it’s still asleep, much like that time in college you awoke to realize that you’d eaten four Nutrisystem bars and a mostly melted half gallon of Chunky Monkey ice cream in your sleep.

  *I may not have yelled the part about the diapers, but I thought it very loudly.

  *This is not a lie; I actually was a professional mime.

  *All right, 129-pound lumps.

  † Fine. 137.

  ‡ Maybe not such a bad thing in about ten years.

  *Yet.

  six

  HOW NOT TO CALM A CHILD ON A PLANE

  I am at the airport with my daughter and the guy she calls “Dada.” We are about to board a Florida-bound plane to visit my mother-in-law.

  But the toddler is losing her shit.

  After two years of being the perfect travel companion, she has suddenly developed a fear of flying. I wonder if maybe she’s worked out the physics of what we are about to do. Perhaps she has come to realize, as I have, that manned flight is a practical impossibility and is certain to end in our fiery deaths. Or maybe she’s just toying with me. Whatever is going on in that reptilian brain of hers, she is yelling at the top of her lungs, “NO AY-PWAY! NO AY-PWAYYYYY!” as we board the aircraft and take refuge in our seats.

  Luckily, we’ve scored the bulkhead. Actually, luck had nothing to do with it. I had flirted mercilessly with the ticketing agent, a very fit man with impeccable hair, who my husband later informed me was clearly gay. But whether I’d seduced him, or whether he’d simply taken pity on a woman with zero gaydar, the result was the same: I’d scored. But in this moment I take no comfort in our rock-star seating, because there is a demon in my lap who is trying to separate my scalp from my head.

  People file past us, with varying looks of pity and horror but mostly relief that they’re not sitting next to the kid who’s screaming like a mongoose that’s been stabbed with a rusty steak knife. And even though the titanium-haired stewardess has announced that the flight is full, the seat next to me remains suspiciously empty. Perhaps my neighbor-to-be saw the Tasmanian Devil in my arms, then chose to deplane and take the ninety-six-hour Greyhound bus ride home instead.

  At this point the husband and I do the only thing we can do: we turn on each other. He glares at me and I glare back, an exchange that every parent recognizes as the “I WILL DIVORCE YOU IN THE NEXT FOUR SECONDS UNLESS YOU FIX THIS” glare.

  His response is to rub her back and say “it’s gonna be okay it’s gonna be okay it’s gonna be okay” over and over and over, and since that is just slightly less annoying than the screaming, I take control of the situation by ransacking the diaper bag, in hopes of finding something to stop the infernal sound that is coming out of her face-hole: Binky? Lambie? Superplus tampon hanging out of a torn wrapper? Nothing works. She just gets redder and louder.

  I reach into the wall pocket and pull out a SkyMall magazine. Nothing thrills me more than the SkyMall. Where else can you buy a one-person submarine for only nine thousand dollars? But the child does not share my love for the Mall of the Sky; she just rips the magazine out of my hand and flings it—and the tampon—onto the lap of a businessman sitting two rows back.

  The captain’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, “Ladies and gentlemen, we cannot take off until everyone,” he is clearly referring to me, “takes their seats.”

  As a last-ditch effort, I grab an air-sickness bag, draw a face on it, reach inside, and say the funniest thing I can think of: “Ooga booga.”

  The kid stops crying, then smiles, then giggles. “More puppet?” I ask. “MO PUPPA!” she says. The orange-level threat has been averted. Frau Stewardess smiles, blessing me with a nod. I couldn’t be prouder if I’d just disarmed a hijacker with a Uniball pen and a lavender-scented sleep mask.

  I think perhaps I should write a column in Family Circle Magazine, one in which I offer helpful parenting advice under headings like “Changing the World, One Diaper at a Time.”

  The child—now human again—interrupts my fantasy publishing life. “Mo Puppa, Momma!” I kiss her head, thank the gods above for blessing me with such natural parenting ability, then think to myself, “Sure, one puppet is fine, but two puppets—now that’s a show!” I reach into the wall pocket in front of my husband’s seat and take out his air-sickness bag. I draw a face, give it curly hair and glasses so that it looks like me—I know, nice touch—and stick my hand inside.

  And then my world contracts.

  Seems this air-sickness bag has been used before . . . but not for a puppet show. No, it’s been used for the purpose that God intended. My husband looks at me, understanding immediately what has happened. He is horrified, though I think I see the tiniest hint of a smile creep across his face. After deciding to divorce him the minute we touch down, I turn to the matter at hand . . . on hand . . . IT’S ON MY HAND!!

  You’d think that having a child has prepared you for the bodily functions of humanity, until you find yourself wearing a glove made of the puke of a stranger.

  I spring out of my seat, afflicted digits still in bag.

  Of course, there is no lavatory in the front of the plane, where we are, in the bulkhead seats. I curse my flirtation skills and then make my way to the bathroom in the back of the plane. But the aisle is filled with humans lumbering to their seats. I want to crawl between their legs, leapfrog over them, fatally stab the stewardess if I have to, whatever it takes to get to that bathroom.

  Finally, I claw open the lavatory door and lock myself in. I take a deep breath, then pull out the hand.

  It is covered in a substance that is thick, wet, viscous, and sprinkled with flecks of something—honey-roasted peanuts, perhaps?

  As I scrub my hand in water hot enough to cause a third-degree burn, I think maybe I should save the bag for its DNA, just in case I acquire some rare, undefined flesh-eating disease and need to identify the mystery cookie tosser. But no, I’d rather go to my death than have to look into the face of the person whose guts I have touched.

  Now clean, I take a moment to marvel at what has occurred: Roughly two million people fly the friendly American skies every day. How many of those travelers reach for, and then actually use, an air-sickness bag? And of those phantom pukers, how many would choose to put the vomit-filled vessel back into the seat pocket? And then, what’s the probability that a cleaning crew would overlook this sack o’ sick? Finally, what are the odds that all of this would become the perfect setup for one arrogant idiot who attempts to make a hand puppet out of a barf bag?!

  Fuck Me.

  As I leave the bathroom and make my way back to the (argh!) bulkhead seat, I stare into the faces of the last hurried stragglers boarding the plane. They look agitated, each one facing the prospect of a middle seat. “You think that’s bad?” I want to say. “If that’s the worst thing that happens to you today, then you, my friend, have hit the jackpot, because you’re looking at a woman who has seen into the abyss.” But I don’t say that. Instead, I hurry back to my seat where the child is now sleeping, clutching the puke-free puke bag to her chest like a teddy bear. Normally, an event like this would send me into a rage, long enough to write at least half of an angry letter of complaint, but as I watch her sleep, my anger deflates. I will not condemn this Barfing Bandit, whose moment of lapsed judgment has made my arm’s-length list of life’s most disgusting experiences. Who am I to judge? If somebody filmed all of my questionable life moments and then edited them together, the resulting movie would be about three hours shorter than my actual life span. All I can do is chalk this one up to experience. Par
enthood is a minefield of unpredictability: sometimes the mines are made of tears; sometimes they’re made of undigested food.

  Anyway, it’s possible that the occurrence of this mathematical improbability has created a statistical vortex, one in which we are virtually guaranteed that this plane will land safely. So thank you, former passenger of seat 1B, wherever you are, for saving our lives with a single well-placed heave.

  seven

  PLAYDATE IN THE PARK: AN ODE

  A day at the park, ’twas like any other

  for a young(ish), sleep-deprived, bored-stiff new mother

  I’d answered a Craigslist ad based in my ’hood

  for a play group that sounded like it might be good.

  “Bring yourself and your wee ones on down to the park

  for a two-hour playdate; starts 10:00 a.m. sharp!”

  We schlep to said spot, snack bag firmly in hand.

  I plunk the kid down in the box of foul sand.

  Then plop my own ass on a bench near the gate,

  fix my hair, check my teeth, and await our play “dates”!

  The playground gate opens, the first to appear

  is a mom, her four kids, and two tons of kid gear.

  She’s a Go-Getter Mom, texting as she speaks.

  She got more done this morning than I did this week.

  She talks without stopping, can’t get in a word.

  I said my name twice, though there’s no sign she heard.

  In a minute come more folks, one cute little tot,

  and with him his Sexy Mom, dressed weirdly hot.

  In stilettos, a half top, and low low-rise jeans,

  she “JUST GOT VAJAZZLED!” then shows what that means.*

  Next up comes a mom who smells like a bong.

  She came with a friend, they’re the Party-Girl Moms.

  That one pours Kahlua through her Starbucks lid

  while the other one keeps losing track of her kid.

  I’m feeling uneasy, not to be a dick,

  I’m thinking I’d like to get outta here. Quick.

  But I can’t leave just yet, my kid’s having fun.

  I’ll stick it out twenty more minutes, then done.

  From a sleek minivan High-Achieving Mom comes.

  Her “Lean-In” success makes me feel like chewed gum.

  She’s got five under-fives, and has three PhD’ses

  Why, just yesterday she cured three diseases!

  Between her twin tots, spoken languages: nine.

  It’s clear their IQ’s are much higher than mine.

  Here comes Neat Mom, dressed in white ethereal,

  dunking her kids in gel antibacterial.

  Her sons are so spotless, such perfect grooming

  for toddlers, it’s hard to believe they’re human.

  More mommies arriving, good Lord they keep coming.

  Each one less my speed, I’m increasingly bumming.

  That’s the Shitty Kid Mom, and oh, how I pity her,

  cuz bad as her kids are, they’ll only get shittier.

  Her daughter’s pure nasty, the kid’s always scheming.

  Her son’s even worse, I think he’s part demon.

  There’s Sailor-Mouth Mom, who in between fussing

  with her newborn baby, just cannot stop cussing.

  She’s tossing out “f-ck” bombs and “sh-t” bombs away.

  “C-sucker,” “d-licker,” “eff me in the A!”

  Hippie Mom of patchouli she smells, to high heaven,

  while breast-feeding her kids, ages nine and eleven.

  As I scan the faces of this mommy throng,

  it’s totally clear to me, I don’t belong.

  I suppose I could flee, run fast as I can,

  leave the child behind, in the cat box of sand.

  But this problem extends past this day, and beyond.

  Seems I’ve ruined my life giving birth. I’ve signed on

  to a stream of mom friends to whom I can’t relate.

  S’pose I’ll have to just suck it up, accept my fate.

  When in walks a mom with a girl my kid’s age.

  She sits by herself; I decide to engage.

  Her kid’s not annoying, plays nice with my baby.

  The mom seems quite normal, I start to think maybe

  that this one’s the RIGHT MOM, she’s much more my speed.

  She’s sarcastic and funny—she reminds me of me!

  I have visions of lunches and weekend playdates

  where we’ll hang out and talk about moms who we hate!

  I find myself feeling relieved and relaxed—when she ups and excuses herself sorta fast.

  She wrangles her kid, says she’s late for a date, and pushes her stroller right out of the gate.

  I ask for her number; she says, “That’s okay.

  I’ve got plenty of ‘mom’ friends. Thanks anyway!”

  And away she goes, without another word,

  I must’ve looked shocked, like I’d eaten a turd.

  A hand on my shoulder, I can’t recall which,

  with a voice that says, “HOLY SHIT, WHAT A BITCH!”

  “FUCK HER!” says Sailor Mouth Mom. “AND FUCK HER REJECTION.

  “YOU’RE NOT HERE FOR JUDGMENT, OR HER SEARCH FOR

  PERFECTION.”

  “A MOM’S DAY CAN BE SO FUUUUUCKING MIND-NUMBING.

  WE COME HERE FOR SUPPORT, AND TO BE FUCKING WEL-COMING!”

  Though Sailor Mouth Mom has an odd choice of phrases,

  I am stung by her words, and the point that she raises.

  So with her sage input, a new point of view,

  and a vow to be less judge-y, I join the crew.

  Cuz this is where ALL moms—me too—can belong.

  So I introduce myself to the vajazzler.

  And the chick with the bong.

  *VAJAZZLING: the application of rhinestones and other gem stones around the vulvar area. See also: “SERIOUSLY?!”

  eight

  OH, YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE

  It’s late December and I’ve just squeezed a nine-pound girl child through my hoo-ha. She’s being cleaned in the hospital nursery while her new, freaked-out father keeps watch. I am still in the delivery room, feeling exhausted, slightly throbbing, but mostly happy that it’s over and I no longer feel like I am passing a solar flare through my lady parts.

  My nurse, a sweet southern belle in pink floral scrubs, cleans up what looks like the aftermath of a murder. She is tossing bags of goo into a bin marked “human waste” or something equally demeaning.

  On the counter sits a large plastic vat containing the placenta. Unless you’ve recently expelled one, you may be unaware that it is the organ responsible for nourishing the unborn child. Think of it like a bag lunch that lasts nine months. While some incense-burning individuals may charitably refer to its appearance as that of a flower or a “Tree of Life,” I would suggest that it looks like something between a rotting jellyfish, a giant hydroencephalytic brain, or some unpronounceable Hungarian dish that contains way too much sauce, depending on the angle.

  As I gaze upon this remarkable and repulsive bloated sack of slop, I become mesmerized by its glistening folds, and like a flesh-and-blood Rorschach it triggers in me thoughts of a friend, who for reasons that will become clear, I shall refer to only as “K.”

  We have been friends for a long time, K and I. She is a complex person; on the one hand, she’s lovely, thoughtful, intelligent, and immensely successful in her professional endeavors; on the other, she is one of the most depraved people I have ever met, qualities upon which our deep friendship is based, qualities that led to the day when she put a petrified turd in a box, tied it up with a bow, and gave it to me as a joke.

  And unlike her, I shit you not.

  It was K’s birthday, so when she handed me the beautifully wrapped gift, the only thing I could think of to say was, “But it’s your birthday.” I was shocked, of course. Disgusted, without a doubt. But mostl
y, I was impressed.*

  And ever since that day, I have been hoping for an opportunity to exact my revenge.

  And here it is, in Delivery Room 6B, staring me in the face, about to be tossed out like so many pounds of glop. I imagine how the deed will go down: I will hand K a hefty box tied with ribbon. She will look at it and say, “But you’re the new mother . . .”

  It will be sublime.

  The conversation with my nurse goes something like this:

  “Sooooo, that’s the placenta, right?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “Can I have it?”

  Long pause.

  “Why?”

  I consider telling her that I want to do what countless hippie pagans do with theirs: Boil it? Bake it? Bury it? Bathe in it? I don’t know. But I can’t lie to her. I feel that we have really bonded over the past few hours, and something in me wants to impress her. So I tell her my story. My poo-revenge story.

  Wrong choice. Apparently, seeing a human being spring forth from my loins hasn’t bonded her to me in the same way.

  “I can’t do that,” she drawls. “I’d lose my job.”