By Bronwyn Lewis
31/10/2014
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| This is a lying bitch and that baby is not real. |
One time I got my big toe jammed underneath the front door,
squishing it between cold, hard tiles and angry, splintery wood. It is one of the
most painful things that has ever happened to me. The kind of pain that makes
you feel hot and cold at the same time and where you can’t decide whether to
laugh or cry, so you do both in some unhinged, psychopathic kind of way - kind
of like Beyonce’s sister acted that one time. In my recent experience of flying
from Canberra to Melbourne with my 8-month-old daughter, I have learnt that that
door experience was heavenly compared to flying with a baby. I would happily waltz
down stairs and swing that mother flipping door onto my bruised and battered
big toe every single bloody morning if it meant I didn’t have to fly with a
baby ever again.
When Olive was only a couple of months old, she filled me
with false ideas about what it meant to fly with a tiny human. I’d nervously
get on the plane whilst watching people hold their breath, hoping, wishing and
praying for dear life that I would take my bundle of potential mayhem as far
away from them as possible. I would find my seat and immediately apologise to
the people who sat near me, who would either blatantly ignore me through sheer
rage, or would pretend through gritted teeth that it wasn’t a big deal and they
were pleased a cute little baby was near them. The fake nice people I will
remember forever because I love them. As soon as she started to stir, I would chuck
her on my boob and she would drift off to a lovely deep sleep and only wake
when we were disembarking. The other passengers would praise her for being such
an excellent flyer, which would translate as a direct compliment to me for not
having a screaming form of harsh contraception for everyone. I thought I was
truly amazing and pitied the poor people who hadn’t figured out how to shut
their little turds up. Obviously their babies were broken.
Alas, this honeymoon stage with flying had an expiration
date and my baby went from being the ideal travelling accessory to being the
baby that made people want to smash their tiny windows and get sucked out into
the atmosphere. Hell, on the last flight I definitely considered it. As a
crawling 8-month-old, she hates sitting still and is too dumb to be distracted
by any form of stationary entertainment. Bananas in Pyjamas can go fuck themselves for
all she cares.
She fought with all her might against literally being
strapped to me with the infant seatbelt, which was not only embarrassing, but
quite painful because she has nails sharper than Wolverine and a temper worse
than Pat Cash. So once she was strapped in, I wiped my bleeding face and hoped
that she would calm down or majestically fall asleep so I could pretend people
didn’t hate me for attempting to fly with a tiny monster.
She didn’t sleep. Instead, she climbed all over me like a
small monkey and yelled in my face like rabid baby goat. People would glance
over at me with either complete disdain or patronising sympathy. Both made me
want to reach down my throat and rip my reproductive organs out and throw them
down the skinny aisle towards the clown-faced air hostesses. I discovered she
would be quiet if I let her shove all of her fingers in my mouth and scratch
the skin off underneath my tongue. It hurt like buggery, but if it kept her
somewhat still and silent, I would let her pull all of my teeth out. She got
sick of that pretty quickly, so my next trick was letting her stand on the
pull-down table and suck on the chair in front of us whilst bashing it like a tiny,
angry Mr T. The woman in front was the kind of passenger that ignored us, so it
was ideal because it let me skull the mini complimentary bottle of cheap red
wine out of a plastic cup in one large gulp.
Sucking on the chair was surprisingly successful for about
five minutes until she realised that people were starting to look comfortable,
so she started her riot again. I decided to give my neighbour a break because
Olive’s idea of socialising with her was pinching the plump fatty bits of her bingo
arms enough to make her wince. I went to the toilet that had a change table and
just stood her in the sink so she could bash her reflection. I don’t know what
it is with babies and mirrors, but they go absolutely ape shit when they see
themselves. I think Olive was the only one thrilled with her being on the
plane. As she punched and slapped the mirror with unbridled glee, I caught a
glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not only did I spill my red wine down my
front, but I looked like something Pete Doherty coughed up after a week-long
bender. I looked fine before I got on the plane, but the stress seemed to have made
my hair greasy, my eyes sink into the back of my head and a confusing amount of
adult acne had emerged on my face. I realised the experience was destroying me
from the inside out.
After ten minutes in the bathroom, I reluctantly returned to
my scathing audience. Olive continued to climb on me and yell at everything
like Mel Gibson would an innocent Jewish lesbian. When we finally landed, I
imagined I could relate to someone who had been taken hostage for years and
they were finally landing back on home soil. I could see the light at the end
of the sewage filled tunnel.
Seatbelt signs went off and when I stood up, people looked
at me differently. Their rage was gone and it had been replaced with worried,
lipless smiles that quickly replaced my relief with the feeling of utter inadequacy.
Yes, okay, I get it. She was a complete moll and she ruined the taste of your
complimentary cheese and cracker thing that had a ridiculously unbalanced ratio
of cheese to cracker. But it’s not her fault, is it? It’s mine for taking her
on a plane thinking that she was going to be satisfied with staring at the back
of the chair without sucking on it. It’s mine for thinking that that lovely
little baby would stay tiny and useless forever and even the sound of the plane
cabin would put her to sleep. So I got off that flight, with my fidgety baby in
one arm and my reproductive organs in the other and hastily made my way away
from all my new enemies.
I learnt a lot from that flight. I learnt that I have
created a mental monster that not only hates flying but is single-handedly ruining
entire plane loads of sex lives for maybe ever. Olive is responsible for stopping
the speedy growth of our nation’s population, one plane ride at a time. You’re
welcome, Australia. Now, if someone could remind me to never fly again, that
would be ace.
