Mr. 30E and the Airplane Adventure

Here is a new addition to my least favourite things: A five hour flight with a hyperactive one-year-old on my lap.

The morning started badly. We had to get up insanely early with no time to eat and barely enough time for coffee. The incompetent airline -- that shall remain nameless -- did not have enough staff on desk, making the baggage check line ridiculously long. Despite arriving in plenty of time, we barely made our flight. Consequently, I did not have time for breakfast and barely managed to buy a coffee before racing to the gate, one-year-old in tow.

I missed pre-boarding and got onto the plane after most passengers had already taken their seats. Our seat was at the very back, which meant I had to walk all the way down the aisle as other passengers looked at me in dread. The walk of shame.

Yes, I was that mother, struggling to contain an excited, wriggling toddler with one arm while balancing hot coffee, a muffin, and a big bag with the other.

To make matters worse, when I finally reached our seat, there was someone in it. When, barely able to contain my writhing son and looking obviously desperate for help, I politely told the man that he was in my seat, he did not move. Instead, he smirked at me. Yes, he smirked. This did not win him a place in my heart.

“E.” He said.

“No, my seat is 30D.” I said. Then, assuming he was confused, I explained: “D is the aisle. F is the window.”

“E.” He repeated with the same smirk. “He is in 30E.”

I was so confused. He who? Then he gestured to a blonde guy seated in the row across from us. I looked back and forth between the two, hopelessly losing this mind game. I was starving, dying for caffeine, and had lost any ability for witty banter somewhere before security.

My son chose this perfect moment to dive from my arms. While catching him, I nearly dumped my entire coffee onto a sweet old lady. The man still didn’t move, and in fact smirked even more. Clearly he had no idea how close he was to death.

“I don’t care what seat he’s in!” I exclaimed desperately. “I just want my seat.”

Something in my tone must have penetrated his evidently thick skull, because he finally moved. Mr. 30E then got up to claim his middle seat beside mine, promptly pulled his toque over his eyes and put his headphones in.

The flight hadn’t even started and already I felt like a pariah. I even heard a woman remark that when she was young, parents never took small children on flights. Well, excuse me.

We must have done at least fifty treks up and down the aisle. Then we went to the bathroom to play with the faucet, which apparently is the Best Thing Ever. Then we headed back up the aisle. Then to the bathroom to play with the toilet paper. We would sit for about twenty minutes until the Captain took a nose dive off my lap, and then back up the aisle we went. And down. And up.

We attempted lunch, which mostly ended up on the floor. We attempted milk, which mostly ended up on me. Finally, we attempted Cheerios, which mostly ended up on Mr. 30E. My profuse apologizes went unacknowledged.

I have never wanted sedatives so badly in my life. For all of us.