The bag of Lay’s Salt & Vinegar potato chips wasn’t supposed to look like a bomb poised to explode.
“Miss! Miss! Can you help me open this? It’s really full!”
My new little friend was calling me across the aisle, seated just a catty-cornered row behind me.
What the heck I thought as she handed me the nitrogen-filled over-pressurized potato chip time bomb. Full wasn’t the right adjective to describe this bloated bag. I considered how to open it without bringing the TSA down on my head.
Gingerly grasping the bomb’s spine, and gently tugging, ever so slowly, on the top so that I formed a triangulated opposition of tension that just might diffuse the bag’s internal pressure. “She’s about to blow” I thought to myself, envisioning my perp walk off the plane. Gently, gently I spoke soothingly to the seams. Passengers in rows behind us leaned into the aisle to watch the plane mom bomb-expert work her magic for a bag of chips and child, neither of which belonged to her.
God was my copilot this day and the bag’s seams enjoyed the slight tugs that released their distended pressure.
Ahhhh the bag of Lay’s sighed. That feels better.
“Here you go,” I said, handing back the diffused bomb to the child in row 3.
My friend does this for a living — diffusing or detonating bombs — working alongside Navy Seals rather than unaccompanied minors. I imagine he feels the same relief I did that day on flight 412. Except his bombs are not loaded with potato chips.
How did I become a plane mom you are asking? I’m also trying to figure this out.
The day began easily enough, with light traffic to the airport during this busy holiday season. But once inside, the security queue was full. And today, my TSA-Pre luck had run out, so no short path for me to the scanner. I made it through easily after removing the potential threat of a Hall’s cherry cough drop from my right pocket and found a front row seat at the gate. We were near the service animal’s restroom area and I watched an adorable Boston Terrier who, I overheard its owner say, has an Instagram account where we might follow the dog’s antics.
It was time to line up by our assigned numbers. The woman who would be first after pre-boards was inching her UGG boots forward well over the line, as if her sheepskin-lined boots would help her find the best seat in this first-come-first-serve plane.
Chance led me down the walkway, saying good morning to the flight attendant, and on to row 2 which was occupied by a pre-board grandmother safely secured in her window seat. I asked, “is this seat taken?” and was happy to find the aisle seat free with its tiny bit of extra leg room. We heard the flight was full and expected a middle seat-mate to soon join us, but in the end, we were lucky to have the row to ourselves.
“Flight attendant! Miss! Stewardess!”
I noticed the little girl one row behind me calling out.
“I need to go to the bathroom!”
But the flight attendants were busy making drink orders in the galley kitchen. I leaned back to tell the three children in row 3 that the flight attendants would soon be back down the aisle bearing drink trays.
My first step in becoming a plane mom.
The flight attendant eventually heard these cries from row 3 and asked the children to stay seated “until the captain has turned off the seat belt sign.”
Once the sign blinked off, I leaned back to say they could use the restroom, one at a time.
“But what do I do with my hot chocolate?”
“You can put it on his tray,” I responded, “or I can hold it for you.”
Ugh what was I thinking. This was my alone time to dig into one of the many books I’d shelved while finishing my degree. The shelf had grown full of books to be read one day, and today was the beginning.
She gladly handed her hot chocolate and napkin. I leaned back to secure her tray, telling her to head for the restroom now.
Which was not quite so easy since she didn’t know which door to open. And I could only gesture wildly and point from my row, trapped as I was by seat belt, book, and tray full of hot chocolate and Coke.
Soon the flight attendant returned and pointed her to the bathroom door. The red X appeared, meaning the little girl could read and lock the bathroom door. Awesome.
“Thank you,” she cheerfully replied as I handed back her warm chocolate.
“Can I have more ice cubes? We all need more ice cubes!”
In my experience, kids are heat-sensitive creatures and the hot drink was too much for them. This required no plane mom duties since the awesome flight attendant was there quickly with cooling ice.
Back to my book about the current state of truth and politics, two concepts that aren’t typically discussed at once.
“Miss! Miss! He needs to go to the bathroom REALLY BAD!”
Our flight attendants were seated by now and didn’t hear her cries. Or chose temporary deafness. And the red X was glowing.
“Hold on until the red X turns green, then you can go,” I urged the little boy seated next to my plane daughter. His sister occupied the window seat and was happily playing with her mini iPad.
“Now you can go!” The X was green and the previous occupant walked past us. I needed to be sure my plane son got his turn next, based on my perceived direness of the situation.
More hot chocolate on my tray as my plane daughter let the little guy past her.
Bathroom navigated with ease by my new plane son! Hot chocolate, check. Book, check.
“Miss! Flight attendant! I need help with my potato chips!”
I looked up from my book to see no flight attendants in the aisle or galley. I looked down to see the potato chip bag effortlessly spilling half its contents on the carpet just between the emergency light strips.
Plane mom to the rescue. Grabbing my flight safety card, I gently scooped up the errant chips, handing the bag back to my plane daughter and carrying said chips towards the galley trash bag.
Our flight attendant, who was in the galley, thanked me, saying “sorry I was on the phone.” It was no problem since I could only envision the chips being trampled to smithereens in our deplaning frenzy.
Now back to my book. Reading about the “black swan who ascended to office because of a perfect storm of factors” wasn’t uplifting holiday reading, taking me to a much darker place, one not lit by glowing red X’s or cheerful announcements from our pilot. “An estimated five billion dollars in free campaign coverage from media outlets obsessed with the views and clicks that the former reality-TV star generated.” Double ugh. My waning Christmas spirit needed a reboot.
“Hey! Miss! What stop do you get off on?” my plane daughter asked loudly across the aisle.
“Oh, I get off in San Antonio,” I told her.
“I get off in El Paso,” she said, telling me at once that some lucky family was waiting for this smart, cheerful little girl to come home to them. Our plane was slated to travel even further west, so I’m glad she would soon be reunited, giving her family the low-down on the red X and near-scalding hot chocolate.
My political book takes me back to George Washington’s thoughts on serving the common good: “Observe good faith and justice toward all nations. Cultivate peace and harmony with all.” This is how we’ll move forward as a nation that fought a revolution united against a common foe, and not against one other. This plane is a fitting metaphor for a nation, united in our travels toward a common destination, working together for the common good.
It was time for our collective plane ride to end. We stepped aside as the boy and his sister deplaned first to find their waiting dad. I wished my little plane daughter a Happy New Year, and she smiled shyly.
My seatmate needed help locating her silver cane in the overhead. I carried her black floral tote out to the jet bridge where her wheelchair awaited, wishing her a Happy New Year.
On the bridge, the blonde mom in row 4, just behind our three unaccompanied minors, told me cheerily, “Thanks for being such a good plane mom!”
“I wish I could have helped, but my baby kept crying.”
No worries, I told her. It was my pleasure, and it was no problem, except for the potato chips, but even that ended nicely.
