First Class, Baby (Part IV: Ten Tips for Traveling Alone with Infants and Other Dangerous Cargo)

On Christmas day I crossed the border and got my Green Card. Yes! We're home now (the new home, in San Francisco, where I live with my husband and son) and I've had a few days to look back and reflect on my six-week window into life as the single, itinerant mother of a ten month-old named after a Mojave desert plant.

Ocotillo, Mojave desert false cactus

What did I learn?

Oh, lots of things. Like how old unmarried men are drawn to young (presumably) unwed mothers like old unmarried moths to an insta-family flame. And how tough it is to be a single mom -- to be the only person who could possibly take the baby for his night-time walk and rush him to the toilet at six am and then boil some organic prunes without forgetting about them on the stove for two hours. I value my family and friends in a whole new way.

But the really important thing I learned was how to travel with a baby. Sweet Baby James has taken eight flights in his short life; he's also taken one VIA train ride, two commuter trains and countless buses, subways, a boat, cars... he even climbed a motorcycle for the purposes of taking a picture.

Here's how I do it.

Ten Tips for Traveling Alone with Infants and Other Dangerous Cargo

1. Ditch the stroller. It is not easier to push your baby in front of you when you're also dragging a piece of luggage behind you and the diaper bag is falling off your shoulder. Plus, you have to take the baby out of the stroller when you're going through security, and again when you fold it up to store it when you get to the plane/train. Babywearing, on the other hand, rocks. You can leave the baby in the carrier when you walk through security, though the guard will stop you to wipe your hands for explosives (not the pooping kind, unfortunately). Babywearing will also save you when baby's fussing and you need to walk up and down the aisles. Plus, bored strangers are less likely to assault (read: try to pick up and cuddle) your baby up if he/she's in a carrier. I like my ring-sling because it also doubles as a blanket when baby goes to sleep (that's a lie, he never goes to sleep). Mine are home-made but they look like the Maya Wrap:
   
   
   ***Airports are also great places to check out the hottest in babywearing fashion. See the airport posts on Too Hot For Stroller!
   
2. Pack light. Lighter than you ever thought you could. They probably have diapers, wipes, burpee cloths, nursing pads and other necessities where you are going. Just bring what you need for your travel time plus 24 hours (in case of delays) and find a pharmacy first thing when you wake up the next day.
   
3. That said, having a portable changing pad/diaper kit really comes in handy. Public restrooms should have clean and safe baby changing facilities, but they don't. It drives me crazy (see photos: www.mamactivism.wordpress.com). This is what my Skip Hop portable changing station looks like:
4. Pack even lighter. Yes, babies love to play with stuff but it doesn't have to be the locally-made, ethically produced organic toys they're familiar with. Your host's measuring cups, colander, coffee tin, old comb, recycling, etc. are all great options and you can leave them behind guilt-free. If someone decides to laden you with gifts (and they will), ship them home.
   
5. Don't waste time trying to get baby to keep his hands to himself. OK so airplanes are nastydirty and the windows on the bus are grimygross. But the constant vigilance it will require and the fight that might ensue between you and the baby just isn't worth it. Pack some diaper wipes. Keep them at hand so you can wipe his. Think about all the immunities he's building.
   
6. Accept Help. Your host wants to help you to the station? The airline allows you to board early? That withered old man is going to attempt to haul your suitcase up the stairs? Let people help because it makes them feel good. If help isn't forthcoming, politely ask for assistance. You are transporting the future of the world in your arms and they are rushing home to catch a Friends re-run.
   
7. Make friends with the flight attendants. These are people who can make or break your journey and -- what luck -- they've made a career out of being helpful and cooing at infants! (they also watch out for thousands of people's safety -- and Alec "not a very unselfish man" Baldwin -- but that's another matter). When you're boarding the plane, pause and say hello, ask them how their day's going; show them your adorable little bundle. Then show them your boarding pass so they direct you to your seat. This way they know how to find you and shower you with attention: I had flight attendants offer to hold and carry the baby when I had to go pee; give me free meals, blankets and bottles of water; invite me to their gourmet first nations restaurant, stow my luggage at the front of the plane, let me change the baby in the first class toilet, and take pictures of us. Win!

   

   Our First VIA Train: taken by the ever-lovely attendant, Rachel

8. Wear slip-on shoes. You have to take off your footwear at security these days. Boots with laces mean sitting down (as if there's a chair available) and bending over to get them off. Babies in carriers don't like it when you sit down and they hate it when you bend over. I know because I made the mistake of wearing my new boots because I was too lazy to carry them. It sucked.
   
9. Carry written and notarized permission from the baby's other parent if you're crossing an international border. I forgot this and just barely squeaked into Canada. "Um, my husband knows I'm taking the baby to Montreal, I promise..." doesn't always cut it. You might also need a copy of the baby's birth certificate to prove that the person who gave permission is in fact the baby's other mama/papa.
   
10. Don't worry about sticking to a routine. Traditional parenting philosophy predicts disaster (danger, danger, high voltage!) when a routine gets thrown off. But flight attendants were asking me, "Is your baby always this good?" and I don't think they were just being nice. Baby needs to know that although everything else is changing, you're there and not going anywhere (without her). I tried to focus on reading Sweet Baby James' cues and providing for them. It was more important to me that he feel content and comfortable than that he finish his breakfast (even if I had been burning cooking those damn prunes for two hours). He napped when he wanted to, nursed when he wanted to, alternately charmed or rebuffed strangers when he wanted to.
    Aside from the non-negotiable enactment of regular diaper changes, I let SBJ be the boss of SBJ. Even when he was a jerk and refused to engage in the best dual-baby-wearing-mama photo op ever.

www.toohotforstroller.wordpress.com

The long and the short of it is that traveling with a baby can be fun. I felt like Sweet Baby James and I bonded in a whole new way when he managed to intimidate his sweet two-year-old cousin and not to poop in the middle of my visa interview. It felt exciting, liberating... Sometimes when we were roaming the streets late at night, whether attempting to find our next destination or just a moment's calm respite, I imagined we were following the steps of our nomadic ancestors. I am mama, hear me roar.

First Class, Baby (Part III)

Air Canada flight 137, Toronto to Vancouver. One hour delayed.

The day begins with both mother and baby cranky, tired, feelings still smarting from our big fight the night before. It was all the baby's fault. My patience is wearing as thin as the two threadbare tank-tops I've been rotating (exchanging?) throughout this trip. It's also looking a little stained. One of its straps has broken.

He fusses at breakfast, at a hipster-only cafe on Dundas Street. I find this especially frustrating because they don't have a highchair or a changing table -- and Sweet Baby James' behaviour is only going to encourage them to keep not having these things. I tell the waiter that not having a highchair makes it hard for me to patronize them. He gives me a nonplussed look as Sweet Baby James lets out a wail (no, you may not wield the fork). I leave my friends to chat (about art! about our generation! about a really interesting conversation!) and stand outside with the baby. A cold wind blows. He's quiet for a minute and I take a deep breath. "SBJ," I say, "We have to pull together. Today is going to be a long day." "Hrgh," he replies.

I'll take that as a yes.

We take public transit to the airport since I'm not traveling with the carseat. It's not all that hard on TO's transit system, especially since I've packed so light (two tanktops, people. Two!). We check our bag and head to security.

About to get on the streetcar (who's bigger, baby or suitcase?)

At Toronto's Pearson International Airport, there are two security line-ups. One is for important people, and the other is for cattle. I approach the young woman guarding the VIP security section. "Excuse me," I say, "Can I go in this line?" I gesture to the baby on my hip who, for once, is using his cuteness to my advantage. She glances at me, gives an imperceptible shake of her head and looks back at her list. I am tired, I am hungry, I am cranky, and now, I am enraged. So I say what any normal person would say while pure feminist outrage coursed through her veins. "Well that's unfortunate!"

(and here I'm reminded of the time my friend was groped while running along the Lachine canal. The guy copped a feel and then rode away on his douchebag low-rider bicycle. "I can't believe it, out of all the things I could have yelled, you know what I said? 'There's something the matter with you!' Yes, that's right. [laughing] I wrote him a strongly worded letter.")

So I walk to the other line. The two gentlemen monitoring this line give us big smiles. They expedite us to the front. Then they transfer us to the Big Person's line. Their generosity only serves to incense me further. How dare she treat me so poorly? How dare she brush me off like a speck of dirt on her (polyester) lapel?

I march up to her. "You know what?" I say, "Actually, I can go in this line. So thanks a lot." I'm stalking off when she says,
"Excuse me, Ma'am, what's your name?" And I think Oh shit. Oh shit, I'm one of those people who yells at airline employees.
"Svea." I say.
"Oh, well it's not like I'm going to risk my job just to put you in the line."
"Well that's fine," I say, "But there are nicer ways of saying that. You could say, 'I'm sorry, you need to go in this line over here.' But instead you just looked through me."
"I was talking to someone else," she lies.
"Well, whatever the case, I felt like it was rude. I hope you have a good night."
"Well, I'm sorry" she says, in the least sorry voice she's ever been not-sorry with.

I'm actually shaking as I struggle to untie my laces to remove my boots for the X-ray machine. "Watch the baby's head" someone says and it's true that he's keeling to the side like a slice of tomato slipping out of an over-stuffed sandwich. But he's silent, somehow awed by his mother's kickass assertiveness. "He's so cute!" says the security guard. "Thanks," I say, "I think so too."

I stop at a family washroom/nursing room on the way to the plane because I want to write about it for my blog. A small sign on the door says "occupied". I reach out to test the handle and a woman in a suit jacket breaks the monologue she's speaking into her cell phone to bark at me. "Occupied!" she says. Yes, I sigh. Rude, rude, rude. I really have to do something about that kick-me sign on my forehead.

We get to our gate and although they're already boarding I run to the washroom to get in one last pre-plane couche change. They have a nice stainless steel changing table (of course) in a nicely sectioned-off little bit of the washroom. Too bad there's not a shelf or even a hook to hang your stuff on. I pile coat, sweater, passports, boarding passes, changing kit, all atop our little backpack, which goes on the floor. The baby voices his disapproval as I change him. I am feeling seriously fed up. Or maybe just hungry. I have no time to stop and pick up a snack, since I spent that time picking up a (seriously overrated) copy of Ondaatje's most recent book.

"What a beautiful child," someone says as she walks into a stall. I try to feel that way, like I am the mother of a beautiful child, the kind of child who shines light into the lives of people (most frequently, myself), who is lovely and enthusiastic and most certainly not going to scream for the next five hours.

It's all about positive thinking, right?

As we're boarding the plane (the last to get on), I count six strollers in the entrance. That's a lot of babies. This is the baby flight. Suddenly, Sweet Baby James' chances of survival are a lot better. I sing to him as we get settled in. The flight attendant comes over to instruct me to hold him facing me during take-off. Which would be fine if he were a little baby, but he's not, and he doesn't fit in my lap like that. So he ends up standing on my thighs, playing a one-sided (his) peek-a-boo with the lady sitting behind us. Probably not what the flight attendant had in mind, but... Quietly, quietly.

He's kind of a grouch for most of the flight but, then, so am I. We watch a little bit of The Wiggles on mute. In case you don't know, The Wiggles are a group of Australian men who like to squat. They perform squatting song-and-dance routines. I hold one earphone up to the baby and the other to myself. As I suspected, they have no rhythm. But this is the first time our baby actually seems compelled by the TV, and this compels me to stretch my own preferences.

The only other notable events of this flight are reflections of the flight attendants' genuine interest and affection: one of them looks ready to take Sweet Baby James home with her, since "My ex-husband was Muslim, I'm Native, it didn't work out." (to which the other attendant replies, "But it's not too late, is it?") I promise to bring the baby in to her restaurant; and the lone male attendant comps me a bowl of oatmeal. Win!

My mom's there to meet us at the other end, and what joy, she has also remembered the carseat. She treats me to the $22 parking lot fee and pulls out onto the highway. I sing the baby some ants as he whimpers his way through the streets of my hometown for the very first time in his very short life.

First Class, Baby

I always wondered what it's like to travel first class. I've done a lot of traveling spending as little money as possible. Well, not exactly. I've done a lot of traveling spending as little money on extraneous things like plane tickets and breakfast as possible. In Sweden I pitched my tent in a city park and stole food off someone's reject cafeteria plate. I also bought this gorgeous canvas coat and took weekly trips to Copenhagen. Anyway.

I got upgraded one time after spending the night in the foetal position under a desk in the Colombo airport (take pity on a poor white girl). There was someone working for an international aid agency in the seat beside me. She had nice hair and a perfectly modulated voice. I had so many questions to ask her but instead I slept through the flight -- a full nine hours. I still have the complimentary eye-mask.

I've most certainly never traveled first class with a baby. Now that I'm on the road with Sweet Baby James, hitting up all my favourite cities on a Last Hurrah/Give Me My Green Card, Bitch cross-Canada tour, I'm willing to give it a try.

Our introduction to the Executive Experience happens on Air Canada flight 758 to Montréal. It's an early morning flight and I begin the day exhausted, tripping over my own two feet which is kind of obscene when you're carrying a baby. I've always felt I should dress up for air travel but today my hair is still damp from the shower, pulled back into a drooping bun. You could say 'drooping' is kind of the unifying theme here: bleary eyes, sagging jeans, and somehow also the once-trusty ring sling which Sweet Baby James has learned how to wriggle loose.

I am constantly readjusting it, tightening it around him for some semblance of safety as we go through baggage check, security, washroom pit-stop, airplane boarding, minuscule airplane washroom pit-stop... It's driving me crazy. And my pants are falling down. I am that mom. That harried mom with frizzy hair and a kid who looks like trouble. The passenger no one wants to sit beside.

What nobody knows is that the last time we took a flight, I kept this baby quiet like my life dependend on it. I walked him up and down the aisles. I took him for a poop in the bathroom. I comfort nursed him whenever he looked a little peevish. I sat paralyzed, staring straight ahead as he slept because I couldn't quite reach my magazine. I tied disposable cups to strings and hung them from different parts of the plane, creating a beverage-themed mobile for his batting convenience.

God dammit, I kept him so content and entertained, no one had cause to complain. No, instead they complimented my husband when he came to pick us up at the gate. "He was so quiet the whole flight! What a good baby!" I don't know why they congratulated him when they should have been thanking me. Anyway.

This flight starts off well with Sweet Baby James relaxing into my arms in our Economy Class seat during take off. I'm a bit on edge because although I took him to the washroom a few minutes before, he hasn't had his morning poop. And he didn't have one yesterday.

For the first ten minutes, it's clear sailing. The man with the aisle seat has begrudgingly consented to switch with me if the baby starts crying and I have to walk the aisle at some point. I'm thirsty. We hit some minor turbulence and the captain turns the seatbelt sign on. I put Sweet Baby James back in his sling and wait for the sign to be turned off. He fusses a bit so I sing him some ants.

The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah.
The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah. The ants go marching one by one, the little one stops to suck his thumb --
and they all go marching down, to the ground, to get out of the rain.

(bum ba-bum bum)

And then I sing him some more. And some more. We're up to ten ants (the little one stops to pet a hen) and still the seatbelt sign has not been turned off. There hasn't been any turbulence for at least fifteen minutes. I'm not the only one getting antsy. Poopageddon seems also to be nigh for several middle-aged men, who jump out of their seats in a desperate bid for the washroom, only to be turned back by a sour-faced stewardess. She comes onto the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has left the seatbelt sign on. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelt, for your own safety and that of others around you, or I will publicly humiliate you in ways only I know how. Thank you."

Sweet Baby James is looking at me like, "Mom, I really have to go..." 

He's a little disturbed by all this. Not so much the seatbelt sign, which I have now come to believe El Capitan has forgotten to turn off, but the accusatory voice emanating from the ceiling. She clicks off loudly and that's when I hear it: the unmistakable sound, the sound I would know anywhere. It is the sound of a pooptrastrophe in the making. Sweet Baby James looks at me, not altogether displeased with himself. I check his diaper and see the tide rising. I quickly snap it back and press down, not wanting to invite our new friend to further explore the terrain of his lower back.

I should take a little time-out here and explain something. Some of you may be wondering what the big deal is, because I have a baby and babies poop their diapers all the time, whatevs. The thing is, we practice 'Elimination Communication' (or Natural Infant Hygiene, as Isabelle Bauer calls it in her inspiring book, Diaper Free: The Gentle Wisdom of Natural Infant Hygiene). Most of Sweet Baby James' poops actually happen on the toilet when we cue him to go. I'll write more about this in another post, but for now I'll say that I do not feel good about letting my baby sit in his own crap. I also prefer not to be its intermediary processor, especially not in confined spaces 30,000 feet above sea level.


So we subsist for a while, me singing more ants and trying to keep Sweet Baby James in a standing position, his twists, turns and dives reduced to a minimum. He complains greatly at this new restriction, lunging for the earbuds of the woman sitting next to us who is watching an old Seinfeld episode and politely ignoring the aroma wafting out of my baby's pants.

At long last, the captain remembers us and pushes his benevolent finger on the off-button. Cue the sound of 300 seatbelts unbuckling. This is my chance. I should be the first in line. I should be running down the aisle as fast as those pudgy middle-aged guys, I should be -- there is no way. Fifteen people line up on each side. In my sleep-addled brain I do the calculation. If they all take an average of three minutes in there (and let's be honest, some of them are going to take a lot longer than that), we're looking at 45 minutes of waiting.

A stewardess approaches me. She must have seen the desperation on my face because she's smiling and suggesting I use the washroom "up there." I can hardly believe my ears: where? In First Class? You want me to take my poopy baby up there into the dimly lit foreskin of the plane, where men in business suits are drinking Sake and... watching old Seinfeld episodes?

I saunter up the aisle, baby on my arm. Apparently people in First Class don't have to pee quite so often because, Hurrah, hurrah, I'm at the head of the line. I slip into the washroom, eager to unclip the changing table and get the baby out of his padded fecal bag when my hand grazes against... nothing. Nothing at all, save the bare beige wall, mottled airplane plastic. There's no changing table.

NO. CHANGING. TABLE.

I do my best. We do our best, Sweet Baby James and I. He cries as I set him down on the toilet seat, perhaps out of surprise at the cold metal on his back, perhaps out of fear at the precarious nature of his position. I can't protect him from rolling off, though I try by straddling the seat with my legs, my hands busy with the task of un-sticking the diaper from his bum. And how the hell am I going to get a fresh diaper out of the case without getting poop on his pants, which are also in my hand? I do it, we do it, and when we exit the washroom to walk back to our seat, not a few of the passengers are smiling at us.

I smile back. No poop to be seen here, folks. Just your average mama with your average adorable baby.

----

Is there something inappropriate about having a baby in First Class? Or is it just that no one does it, and that's why there are no changing tables in those washrooms? Could it be that most First Class passengers are male, and therefore much less likely to be traveling with a baby? I don't know. I took a picture of the changing situation for the 'I've changed my baby...' project. Next time I'll be putting up a sticker.

In a few days we're taking the train to Toronto. I just booked the ticket, a five hour trip. First Class, baby.