flights of fancy

We returned from our trip to Phoenix last night. It wasn't June's first dalliance with air travel, but it was definitely her most impressive.

As you may have inferred from previous entries, we live on Mars (or as my dad pointed out, Mars is too close. We're on one of those planets that just has numbers for a name). So merely getting to the airport is a challenge -- about an hour-and-a-half in the car. The flight out to Phoenix, with a headwind, took nearly six hours and had us landing about an hour after her regular bedtime. Save for a little squirming, June was a giggling, power-eating, cat-napping dream. The way home was even better.

Sure, there was that tense ten minutes of turbulence where June, in my lap, was filling her diaper so rapidly that we were in real danger of baby crude bubbling into the aisles. I wound up plugging the back of her diaper with a "top kill" wipe, of which we were running dangerously low, until that blasted "fasten seat belt" light went off and I could make a bee-line for the bathroom, diaper vibrating in my hands. We got into the bathroom and June cried for the first time. Catharsis, I thought.

Then there was the instance where June, too captivated by all the faces around her to eat, jerked her head back suddenly, exposing a very personal part of me for the flight attendant making faces at her. I whipped my hand forward to cover my bits, getting the nerp at an angle and sending a laser sight stream of milk across the aisle toward the heavily tattooed young lad reading "Dirt Bike" magazine. I didn't dare make eye contact with him. Our contact was much more personal.

But that, I reckon, is traveling with babies. There are pain-in-the-butt moments, like security or not being able to read at length on the plane, but having done air travel with her by myself, I can't complain at all about this journey. Actually, I can't complain about either. She was remarkably good. I'm glad that we've been able to get it under our belts while she is so young.

Greg and I were talking recently how we want June to develop a love of traveling, given it's the best school there is. As Greg said, "I want her to be able to stick her face into the world and not fear it."

I wholeheartedly agree. My pragmatic side, that is. My irrational, worried, mothering side says, "Sure she can travel internationally. But not until she's 25 and only while wearing one of those kiddie leashes tethered to me."

I made my first international flight, by myself, at age 12. Not bad. Granted, it was a direct flight from Shannon, Ireland to Chicago and I was hopped up on Lion Bars and free Coke, but that is a big deal for a young kid. Especially one who was a bit of an anxious traveler. A 20-minute train ride to Chicago, at that stage of my life, had me dry-heaving into my Esprit tote bag, so careening over an ocean in a tin can was akin to summitting K2 for me. I wrote my college essay about that. God, that's pathetic.

I'm not sure how my parents felt about that, given what a wimp I was, but I'm guessing they didn't lose too much sleep over it since I was child No. 3 out of 4. If I went down in a flaming heap, they'd still have three others. Three quieter others.

But all those milestones for "Uno One-o", as my grandfather would say, will send me into premature myocardial infarction territory. I've long thought that the most terrifying moment for a parent would be to send your child off on a bike, by him or herself, for the very first time. I've planned on getting June one of those retractable leashes for when that day comes.

Two years ago, flying back to the states from Ireland for Trish and Dave's wedding, we hit some weather snags on our way into O'Hare (I still had a connecting flight to Springfield, Mo. from there) and wound up landing in Detroit to refuel. That refuel stop wound up being several hours on the tarmac and an eventual deplaning close to midnight. There was a whole lot more to this story but I've learned that if there's one thing more maddening than listening to someone whine about money, it's listening to someone whine about travel so I'll leave it at that. Long story short, I wound up staying in Detroit that night and flying back out first thing the next morning.

But I wasn't alone. I wound up with a 12-year-old Irish ward for the night. She was seated next to me on the plane from Dublin to Chicago and the only words we exchanged during the flight were "Mind if I scoot by to go to the bathroom?" and "Are you going to eat that lasagna?" I assumed she was older, as she had a giant rack. But the fact that she ate only Wine Gums and watched Beyonce videos on the seatback in-flight entertainment system for the entire eight hours we were in the air should have been a better indication of her age.

Her cellphone didn't work in the States, so when we were grounded in Detroit she asked to use mine. I heard her speaking to her parents in Chicago about our unfortunate lot, and then she turned her head away and started speaking in hushed tones. She then turned back toward me, face reddened, and said, "My stepmom wants to speak to you."

I took my phone back and on the other end was her friendly, frantic stepmom. She explained that Hannah, the girl, had been in Galway for the summer visiting family and was on her way to Chicago to stay with her, Hannah's dad and their weeks-old new baby girl before heading home. The stepmom asked me to keep an eye on Hannah, as this was a particularly trying time for any traveler, much less a tween. I assured her she was in good hands and that we'd stick together. I didn't mention I had a slight buzz on from those mini wine bottles they give you on the plane. And that I had eaten her daughter's dinner.

What was promised to be a slight detour wound up a clusterf*ck tour de force that had passengers mobbing around a baggage carousel for luggage that never came, flocking the last open newsagent for water we were denied while on the tarmac for hours, and lining up for hotel assignments without a lick of an idea of how we were getting back to Chicago the following day.

I watched two different couples pass sleeping infants back and forth to each other, bodies awash in fatigue, and my heart broke for them. I resolved to stop complaining about the situation.

Hannah and I got to know each other. She and her mom had moved to the Bay Area a couple of years earlier but she spent summers back in Ireland. She was her parents' only child before they left Ireland and divorced, until her dad remarried and had this new baby, and she couldn't wait to meet her. Hannah's dad was a contractor and they were very close. We chatted all the way to our assigned hotel, where I paid for our adjoining rooms. She ate more Wine Gums. I had a Sam Adams for dinner.

After many phone calls and online checks (thank God I had my computer) we seemed to have a plan. Her dad bought me a plane ticket back to Chicago-Midway with Hannah on a different airline. I was able to wrangle a connecting flight to Springfield from O'Hare. Don't worry about making the connection, Hannah told me, my dad will take care of you.

The next morning Hannah and I were on the first flight out of Detroit. Her dad, black hair appropriately mussed and eyes dimmed from lack of sleep, hustled toward us at the Midway baggage claim.

"Jaysus," he said as he clutched his daughter. "What a fooking nightmare, roight?"

He then hugged me hard and said, "Great to meet you, Kerry."

Hannah's dad bought me a Starbucks coffee and a breakfast sandwich as we drove to O'Hare. He told us about the new baby who would have kept him up even if our flight snafus hadn't. He and Hannah laughed about her grandmother back in Galway lighting candles in church for her safe return. I saw how close they were.

We arrived at O'Hare and they exited the car to give me a hug goodbye. It had been a real crap night, but I felt luckier to have met Hannah than the other way around.

As I sleepwalked to my connecting flight, I thought about what that conversation was like between Hannah and her stepmom when we were stuck in Detroit 12 hours earlier. Where are you seated, her stepmom likely asked. Between an old man and some chick who giggled every time the flight attendants said "Aer Lingus," Hannah would reply. After not a small amount of deliberation, stepmom asked Hannah to put me on the phone. That's an insane level of trust, I thought.

Poor June. That's going to be one long leash.