When Babies Fly
Twenty minutes before my plane was scheduled to board, I sat at the gate in my usual seat-- front row, with a clear view of the runway, watching the planes take off. This time, the airport was in Saint Louis, and this time, a man in an orange vest, whom I had seen assisting with luggage on the runway ten minutes before, approached me.
"Where are you going today, ma'am?" he asked politely.
"Oh, Denver," I replied.
The man pulled a book of tickets out of his pocket, scribbled a few marks on the top one, and handed me one. Still groggy from only 45 minutes' sleep the night before and an abridged nap on my connecting flight, I took the ticket, then barely remembered to ask as he walked away,
"Uh, what's this for?"
"It's the claim slip for your stroller, since you can't take that on the plane," he replied matter-of-factly.
Before I could coordinate any sort of reasonable or polite response, I frantically blurted out,
"That's not my baby!"
The woman five feet away from me, who sat on the floor playing with her two-year-old girl next to a tank-sized stroller, shot me an icy glare.
"I-I-I just thought you were w-with her," the orange-vested man stammered, snatching the ticket from my trembling hand and walking over towards the mother with it.
My manners finally kicked in and I tried to re-compose myself, apologizing for blurting out and recognizing that, by my proximity to the aforementioned baby, he had made an honest mistake. But my composure was secured only externally, for I realized that this whole weekend had sparked inner turmoil inside me, and my explosion was only the result of many days of worn nerves.
This weekend, kids seemed to be a common theme. Cleaning out the sheds on golden pond left my parents saving many toys "for the grandchildren." My newly-married cousin Lindsay was hot gossip, especially the two step-sons she now has. Dave had some toasty ideas for dealing with babies at the beach to make their hot dads more accessible. I recounted this fall's insurance/pregnancy scare over Sunday brunch, threatening to add a secret ingredient to my next apple cinnamon french toast. Even Saturday's brewing that I attempted to help with between 40 (thousand) winks had me bragging about "our baby beers."
As much as I like to joke about it, the truth is, I really am quite uncomfortable around both kids and babies. This has me dreading my pediatric clinicals this fall-- just as I was the only one who had never changed a diaper in my maternity clinicals, I'm sure I'll be the only one who has no idea how to deal with kids. I've even considered looking for babysitting jobs in the meantime, or volunteering to help watch peoples' kids, just so that I can be more comfortable around them. I find children fascinating, the same way puppies and ants are to me-- intriguing, useless, and not worth the trouble. I don't understand them, I don't like them, and I don't know why this makes so many people think I'm a bad person.
When I finally did board my plane to Boston, I ended up sandwiched between four kids. One to my left, named McKenzie, spent half the trip showing me her rock collection, asking about my book, telling me about the latest series she was reading, and telling me about her trip to Myrtle Beach. Her brother hung over the seat in front of us interjecting with stories about flying in lightning storms in Fiji, and how much more his rocks were worth. I put up with it all, tried to act interested, showed McKenzie which ones were quartz, tiger's eye, and fool's gold, but still I never quite felt comfortable.
There are many things I aspire to excel at in life. Climbing mountains, playing frisbee, writing articles, salsa dancing, being a nurse, skiing, knitting, speaking Spanish, cooking, researching, and many more I'm sure I have never even discovered yet. But, dealing with kids, enjoying babies, supervising anyone under 16, I have no desire to ever do, nor excel at. It's just not me.
That's ok, right? I can pick and choose my hobbies, my skills, my joys, just like everyone else in the world, even if babies aren't among them?
"Where are you going today, ma'am?" he asked politely.
"Oh, Denver," I replied.
The man pulled a book of tickets out of his pocket, scribbled a few marks on the top one, and handed me one. Still groggy from only 45 minutes' sleep the night before and an abridged nap on my connecting flight, I took the ticket, then barely remembered to ask as he walked away,
"Uh, what's this for?"
"It's the claim slip for your stroller, since you can't take that on the plane," he replied matter-of-factly.
Before I could coordinate any sort of reasonable or polite response, I frantically blurted out,
"That's not my baby!"
The woman five feet away from me, who sat on the floor playing with her two-year-old girl next to a tank-sized stroller, shot me an icy glare.
"I-I-I just thought you were w-with her," the orange-vested man stammered, snatching the ticket from my trembling hand and walking over towards the mother with it.
My manners finally kicked in and I tried to re-compose myself, apologizing for blurting out and recognizing that, by my proximity to the aforementioned baby, he had made an honest mistake. But my composure was secured only externally, for I realized that this whole weekend had sparked inner turmoil inside me, and my explosion was only the result of many days of worn nerves.
This weekend, kids seemed to be a common theme. Cleaning out the sheds on golden pond left my parents saving many toys "for the grandchildren." My newly-married cousin Lindsay was hot gossip, especially the two step-sons she now has. Dave had some toasty ideas for dealing with babies at the beach to make their hot dads more accessible. I recounted this fall's insurance/pregnancy scare over Sunday brunch, threatening to add a secret ingredient to my next apple cinnamon french toast. Even Saturday's brewing that I attempted to help with between 40 (thousand) winks had me bragging about "our baby beers."
As much as I like to joke about it, the truth is, I really am quite uncomfortable around both kids and babies. This has me dreading my pediatric clinicals this fall-- just as I was the only one who had never changed a diaper in my maternity clinicals, I'm sure I'll be the only one who has no idea how to deal with kids. I've even considered looking for babysitting jobs in the meantime, or volunteering to help watch peoples' kids, just so that I can be more comfortable around them. I find children fascinating, the same way puppies and ants are to me-- intriguing, useless, and not worth the trouble. I don't understand them, I don't like them, and I don't know why this makes so many people think I'm a bad person.
When I finally did board my plane to Boston, I ended up sandwiched between four kids. One to my left, named McKenzie, spent half the trip showing me her rock collection, asking about my book, telling me about the latest series she was reading, and telling me about her trip to Myrtle Beach. Her brother hung over the seat in front of us interjecting with stories about flying in lightning storms in Fiji, and how much more his rocks were worth. I put up with it all, tried to act interested, showed McKenzie which ones were quartz, tiger's eye, and fool's gold, but still I never quite felt comfortable.
There are many things I aspire to excel at in life. Climbing mountains, playing frisbee, writing articles, salsa dancing, being a nurse, skiing, knitting, speaking Spanish, cooking, researching, and many more I'm sure I have never even discovered yet. But, dealing with kids, enjoying babies, supervising anyone under 16, I have no desire to ever do, nor excel at. It's just not me.
That's ok, right? I can pick and choose my hobbies, my skills, my joys, just like everyone else in the world, even if babies aren't among them?