GALEY GALORE’S FLYING SH*TSHOW
Wild Child Can’t Be Broken
Our Son “Caught The Spirit” On Spirit Airlines
[Adapted from my blog, Letters to Aunt Kay: Salty Open Letters to My Parenting Muse. [External Link]]
This rewrite was inspired by a story from Mike Butler.]
We flew from Detroit to Los Angeles with our 22-month-old, Gale— along with the rest of our overtired cherubim.
Never have I seen such a tantrum in all of my momming days.
As was the case with many of our epic toddler meltdowns, it was my fault. In the interest of saving on airfare we’d made a deal with the devil — non-stop from LAX to DTW on the way there, but Detroit to Philly to L.A. on the way home.
And hot damn if we didn’t get delayed two hours before the first leg. Thanks, Obama.
By the time we reached Philly and hustled straight to boarding, they had already pulled the jetway back from the plane. But by some divine meddling by the SPIRIT crew, they drove the jetway back out and re-opened the door.
(Note: that’s unheard of.)
Hallelujah! The trip home wasn’t gonna suck, after all.
The crew and everyone else on the flight quickly came to regret their decision to include us.
Gale was sleeping, thankee Jesus, after having yelled his way through the first flight. No one knew what was coming.
Joe herded our four older kids aboard. I carried my open-mouthed, little angel to our aisle seat. He was swaddled in his favorite bee, surrounded by benevolent travelers bearing parcels from the airport Sbarro, and kissed on the brow by a twinkling star.
At this point the other passengers had been waiting awhile. Mechanical issues, they’d said.
Right after I sat down and buckled, Gale’s cornflower blue eyes unlidded themselves in a manner most unholy. He started to scream.
And when Gale screamed, Gale screamed. He screamed with his whole body. He jumped up and down on my lap. He stiff-armed me and tried everything in his preschooler’s arsenal to get away from me.
I should explain something. Gale was not a baby. He was not even really a toddler. Gale is huge for his age. This was a 22-month-old boy that was more like a four-year-old — if that four-year-old were an adult wolverine. Gale was the size of a medium dog, and we were “pushing it” mightily to have him ride as a “lap” child.
Money talks. And, in this case, money freaks the F out.
He tried to headbutt me; I dodged it, having survived Easter’s toddler years. Gale was no “six-month-old McKayla Maroney is not impressed” meme, but this wasn’t my first gymnastics rodeo, either. I was a mother of five! We’ve flown with small kids for years. Bring it, ya little turd!
At this point you must be wondering — who was the lucky person who was sitting next to me? I can’t remember, but I think we’d taken up the whole row on both sides of the aisle. Joe and I were in the same row. Our four older kids were in the seats between us. The offending child wasn’t encroaching on some rando — at least, not physically.
A few minutes into the scuffle, I realized something. This was gonna suck. I passed Gale off to Joe, feigning disappointment that Daddy is by far the favorite parent.
Folks were sympathetic at first. Then, they started to pivot to pacification. A kind stranger passed Joe a FULL BAG of Skittles (his favorite!). Gale screamed and threw some on the ground. Someone tried to give Gale a small lollipop. He screamed and spun his head away from it like a cat refusing a pill.
A lady with white-girl dreadlocks gave Gale a rainbow, twisty lollipop — a big, Vegas-style one. Wow. We thanked her, hard. At last Gale allowed himself to be consoled — for all of ten seconds.
It was like we’d caught a feral peg from underneath Uncle Jerry’s barn in Grand Rapids, then tried to snuggle it to death on the tarmac.
Gale used poor Joe’s lap as a springboard, then swan-dove to a new depth of hell. Now he would not stop crying unless Joe carried him to the back of the plane and stood by the restrooms.
Daddy was not allowed to sit, use the restroom, or do anything besides hold Gale in a perfectly upright position while standing.
At this point, I noticed that one of the other passengers had put her blanket over her head, in some kind of ham-fisted attempt to muffle the noise. I felt badly. No one was pleased. But also? I am an asshole who lives for the absurd. I could not stop laughing — and sometimes there is nothing left to do.
Say what you will, the kid had stamina. All in all, Gale freaked out for about half of a 5-hour flight across the U.S. of A. He screamed while we waited for our bags to file off the carousel. Then, he screamed for the whole shuttle-bus ride back to WallyPark.
Only once he was buckled into the car seat in our car did he f*cking stop screaming. And at that point, it was nearly midnight P.S.T — or 3 A.M., for those of us who’d adjusted to East Coast time over the course of our vacation. Then, just as suddenly as he’d started, Gale was mysteriously chipper, talkative, and awake. Everyone else moaned with exhaustion.
It was 1 A.M. — or 4 A.M., depending on whose time zone you were committed to.
Take-Home Messages
Frugality and sanity are sometimes mutually exclusive. We’ve also learned that it’s prudent to let sleeping littles lie. Even if it means missing a cross-country flight.
What are the odds that Gale is NOT on the internet somewhere, in a compilation of 15 second videos, taken hours apart?
Slim to none. Just like our chances of flying anywhere with Gale again before he is 10.
Postscript: This trip took place in July, 2017, when we had one less child and had never heard the word “COVID.” We did not fly anywhere with Gale for more than two years after this story’s events. And thanks to the pandemic, we bought ourselves another few.
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