Somewhere 30,000 feet over the Midwest, my daughter hit hour four of what had become a screaming marathon on a cross-country flight from Pittsburgh to Seattle.
We were in full meltdown territory. It was the kind of ear-splitting cry that has strangers making eye contact across the aisle, united in their suffering.
I didn’t blame her.
She had just learned to walk the week before, and the last thing she wanted was to be trapped in a metal tube for six hours, especially because it was bedtime.
We were moving across the country, ripping her away from the only home she’d ever known in her short little life. My husband was doing the 37-hour drive with the U-Haul and the dog (bless him), leaving me to take our toddler and this flight solo.
Everyone (and their mom) has an opinion
“Why don’t you let me hold her for a few minutes and see if it helps?” suggested the woman across the aisle who snapped me back into the moment, reaching for my daughter with the confidence of someone who has clearly never met my sleep-deprived, stranger-danger-aware toddler.
What I heard was, “You’re not doing it right.”
My daughter, predictably, screamed louder at her suggestion and clung to me tighter.
The flight attendant who had smiled so warmly during boarding now avoided eye contact, as if I were trying to sell her essential oils.
I bounced, singing quietly, picked up dropped pacifiers from the floor, and covered tiny ears against pressure changes — cycling through every piece of content stored in my mom-research database.
Is it three bounces and a pause? Four bounces in a rhythm? Bounce on my left foot while patting her back exactly 17 times?
Whatever that Instagram sleep expert swears by, it wasn’t working.
All the things I said I wouldn’t do
As my patience slipped, I reached for my phone and pulled up one of YouTube’s pre-downloaded Ms. Rachel videos. It momentarily reduced her screams to hiccups.
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I pushed the thought away, remembering the words from a parenting book I’d read during pregnancy about how screen time is bad for kids.
Sorry, future brain. We need just five minutes without screaming. Everyone needs five minutes without screaming.
I mixed a bottle of formula while she watched Ms. Rachel. “Breast is best” echoes in my head — another glimpse of the mom I thought I’d be. I shake the bottle a little harder than necessary.
When our stash of organic puffs ran out, I dug deeper into my bag for emergency snacks — the kind with artificial ingredients that I swore I’d never give her.
The captain announced our descent, and I blinked back tears of relief. Just 30 more minutes. “We can do anything for 30 minutes, right?” I whispered to her, somehow still awake.
Counting the cost
By the time we landed in Seattle, it was midnight — 3 a.m., according to her East Coast body clock. I practically sprinted off the plane, diaper bag over one shoulder; she was snug in her ergonomic carrier (still awake) and a trail of annoyed passengers were behind her.
She finally gave up screaming and slumped against my chest, completely spent. We both were.
We waited for our ride at the airport. I leaned against the wall, feeling like a crumpled napkin, and she quietly watched people walk by.
She sucked on a pacifier that we, according to my last pediatrician visit, should be working toward weaning. Something about ruining her mouth development forever.
Her poor, tired eyes are droopy and red. Dried tears and sweat have plastered her curls to her forehead.
I looked at her and thought: what kind of mother am I?
I’d just spent the past week uprooting her entire life for this move, then subjected her to a miserable flight that messed with her ears, sleep, schedule, and stress from the experience that she’ll carry in her body. None of which she has any say in.
I should probably start saving for her therapy fund.
Amid the overload of information and unending advice I’ve absorbed in my first year of motherhood, I felt like I’d already failed at the most important job I’ll ever have.
What I actually needed to hear
That’s when a woman who was seated a few rows behind us on the plane walked by.
I know she’d heard every scream and all my failed attempts at soothing. She could have hustled past with relief that she’d never have to see us again, or told me off for having the audacity to take a baby on a plane.
But instead, she stopped, looked at me earnestly, and said: “You’re a great mom.” Then she smiled and walked away.
“Th-thank you”, I squeaked. Again, blinking back tears.
Genuinely perplexed, I look down at my daughter. Her little hand was in mine, and her head was on my shoulder. Our tired eyes met, and we both smiled.
Even in all the chaos, I’m reminded that I am her safe place.
And maybe that’s all I ever needed to know.
