My kids are seasoned air travelers. Poppy, 8, and London, 3, know how to load the x ray conveyor belt with their gear and to hold their arms up for a full-body search. We carry plenty of snacks, toys, and sedatives.
Flying alone with them recently, I grabbed a few extra pillows and blankets to aid sleep and in case I had to muffle cries. Poppy buckled herself in by the window. London, in the middle, checked out our tray tables. Two adults sat in the emergency-exit row in front of us and giggled conspiratorially about the extra legroom they'd received for agreeing to save our lives.
London wasn't so lucky. Being a vertically challenged guy in a grown-up seat didn't allow him to bend his legs. Therefore, the soles of his Buzz Lightyear sandals rested against the tray table when it was in its upright and locked position. While waiting for takeoff, he hummed the anthem from Bob the Builder, lightly tapping his feet, almost in time. The balding man seated in front of him turned around and popped up so we could see his face.
"He's kicking my seat," he explained to me, smiling that phony smirk my son surely recognized from great villains like Scar in The Lion King and canine-seamstress Cruella De Vil in 101 Dalmatians. I apologized and pointed out to London that his tapping foot might bother the man.
Once in the air, the beverage service and in-flight movie arrived concurrently. As London fumbled with the headphones and I lowered the tray table, his feet brushed the seat back just above the pocket that held an America West magazine, emergency instructions, and a barf bag, an item any parent worth his salt knows is really 20 minutes of puppetry waiting to unfold.
Chrome Dome unbuckled, stood upright, and faced us. "He's kicking my seat again," he sang angrily. The lady next to him peered around at me. "I've got a bad back," she declared. London began to cry. The pair remained unmoved.
I generally avoid people who forget they were once children -- adults who, upon seeing a child, wince or recoil as if these small humans are really tiny lepers with bad haircuts. But on a plane, I'm stuck with them. "I heard you," I said through my teeth as the notebook-size screens lowered and the movie began. I did my best to console and distract my toddler even though I was fuming inside. What London had done with his tiny feet had far less impact than what adults do all the time with full-size legs, knees, and pointy laptop computers. It was clear they were attacking him because of his age and size. If an obese senior citizen or college basketball player was bumping into them, they would say and do nothing.
From Daddy Needs a Drink, by Robert Wilder. ¿ 2006 by Robert Wilder. Published by arrangement with the Bantam Dell Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.
