Flying with a baby is as good as sewing up your private parts.

By Bronwyn Lewis

31/10/2014

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.