I never imagined a two-hour flight could feel like forever. My daughter, Lily, was only fourteen months old, and while she was usually a bright, cheerful little girl, airplanes seemed to bring out her worst side. Maybe it was the pressure in her ears or the unfamiliar sounds, but flying always ended in tears.
That morning had already been long before we even reached the airport. I’d spent most of the night packing everything we could need: diapers, formula, wipes, snacks, toys, an extra set of clothes, and her favorite stuffed rabbit. I was flying from Seattle to Denver for my cousin’s wedding, and though my family had begged me to come, I had almost canceled.
“It’ll be good for you to get away for a bit,” my mother had said gently over the phone. “We’ll all help with Lily once you’re here.”
The thought of finally getting a little rest sounded wonderful, even if the flight itself terrified me.
At the airport, Lily was in high spirits, laughing, pointing at other babies, and babbling nonstop as we rolled toward the gate. But as soon as we boarded the plane, everything changed. The noise, the narrow aisle, the crowd, it all overwhelmed her. She began to whine, then cry, then wail in earnest.I bounced her on my hip, whispered soothing words, even tried singing softly, but nothing helped. My seat was in the middle of the plane aisle, Lily on my lap, and I could feel the irritated stares of passengers all around us. A woman by the window gave me a polite but tight-lipped smile before putting in her earbuds. The man across the aisle glanced over a few times, but instead of glaring, he offered a sympathetic smile.
