It had been a few years since I’d traveled with a diaper
bag. Since I’d packed up the bottles, the diapers, the burp cloths, the
multiple changes of clothes and layering pieces, the thermometer, infant
Tylenol, Motrin and Benadryl, the topical ointments like A and D, Desitin, Neosporin,
Cortisone, Lotrimin, Vaseline and Aquaphor, the Purell and antibacterial wipes,
the extra Ziplocs and garbage bags in case someone gets sick, and a bag full of
teething toys to entertain a seatless child for a flight. Or in this case, two
seatless children.
Yes, we decided to brave it this winter vacation and fly our
flock of six south where many oversized Jewish families go to escape the
cold—Miami.
I knew we’d get some looks in the airport. We looked like
the Von Trapp family singers as we pulled up in a commercial size van—you know,
the ones where the seatbelts descend from the car walls, not the seats—and
child after child after child stepped out. Once inside the airport, I’ve never
heard the number 6 said in so many different languages. Everywhere we went, the
double snap n’ go (my stroller of choice so I’d have car seats to and from the
airports as well as makeshift bouncy seats for the hotel) flagged by two girls
on one side and two on the other, jaws dropped, and passerby travelers were whispering
and trying to count us—
“Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq,” a French woman observed.
“Cinq? No six,” her companion corrected her.
Or “Cinco ninos?” I heard someone ask his wife.
“No, hay seis.”
“Seis? Dios Mio.” (translation: OMG)
The good part, though, is that when you are traveling with
two or more infants on your lap you are actually considered “special services” for
check in purposes. I didn’t even know there was such a counter. Who needs First
Class when you are “special services”—in fact our line was even shorter than
theirs. And once we, and our luggage, were checked in (I did a good
consolidation job, only six checked bags, and only three were overweight), a
special guard came to escort us through security. Like the Red Sea, the holiday
season crowds just parted to let us through. And no one dared to confiscate my
flouridated Poland Spring bottles. “For the babies,” I just said, and no one
said boo. I really did feel “special.”
Mothers who were huffing and puffing at their husbands at
security while trying to fold a single umbrella stroller, hoist it onto the
conveyor belt, and carry one toddler through the scanner stopped in their
tracks and started breathing more calmly again, as they watched us getting our
crew through. “Thank God that’s not me” is what they seemed to say, watching my
husband struggle to collapse the double snap n’ go, while I put two car seats
on the conveyor belt, and my older two girls each carried a twin through the
scanner.
The plane ride itself was interesting because unfortunately
we were not able to get six seats together. Apparently, to reserve six seats together
we would have had to book it before the twins were even conceived. Oh well. Instead,
we were three and three, and 15 rows apart.
I took the older two girls—my 10 year old and 8 year old—and
the harder twin (the boy obviously). My husband took the easier twin but the
younger girls. Oh, and he got bulkhead—a huge advantage for anyone with a baby
on their lap. In the end, though, I really had the winning horse. My son slept
on me most of the time, and my older girls were reading and playing Subway
Surfer on ipods the whole time. They didn’t need me at all. My husband did ok,
until Lily, my four year old, had to go the bathroom and he had nowhere to put
the baby, who was now screaming, and decided to give her to our 7 year old.
Seeing a 7 year old standing in the aisle trying to rock a baby who is about to
squirm out of her arms, without any adult in her vicinity, is actually a little
frightening and passengers were all looking at each other, shaking their heads,
and raising their hands as if to ask “where are these baby’s parents?” A
steward ended up coming over and taking the baby for a few minutes until my
husband returned. Remember, I was watching all of this from 15 rows back,
powerless because I already had a baby in my arms. I tried not to make eye
contact with my 7 year old and just shook my head and pretended to be another
disapproving passenger.
Traveling with kids—any number of kids—is not easy. It’s a
trip, not a vacation. From taking the young ones to the bathroom 10 times a day,
covering the seats with an environmentally offensive amount of toilet paper and
watching the child still manage to rub her bare bottom or her leggings on the
seat, to it always ending up being a number 2 on the plane or at a restaurant, to
changing a baby’s diaper in the claustrophobic airplane bathroom and trying to tell
a five month old not to touch anything, to packing and unpacking, to always
having at least one child who gets sick during the vacation, to the children
who don’t sleep well on vacations—in this case my son who woke up every morning
of the trip at 4:30 am and screamed until 6:30--it’s always surprising family
trips ever happen. But the kids have a blast, or at least that’s the way we parents
justify the expense and the shlep. We do it for our kids. And the truth is my
older kids did have a great time, and it was nice to take the babies out of
snowsuits and let them be wheeled around barefoot a little. They’re at that stage of eating their feet, so
it’s much more efficient for them to be sockless.
Still it’s always nice to come home. My neurotic son is at
peace again and sleeping soundly (apparently he has travel anxiety; could he
please man up????), everyone is back at school, and the biggest relief for me,
no more public bathrooms—I know, I’m a little bit of a germy. The best part is
my husband and I are starting to think about a short trip without kids (thanks
to offers from grandparents who don’t know what they’re in for). It will be our
first time leaving our six in the city, and though I know I will miss them, or at
least I think I’ll miss them, I am counting down the days till I board a plane
with no diaper bag, no bottles, no Sophie the suckable giraffe, no A and D, and
no Benadryl. Just a small handbag, big enough for my photo id, my sunglasses,
and a good book (without pictures).
OK, and a small Purell.
