Travel

6:26 a.m. -- 4 mos., 15 days

Back home after a quick West Coast trip to see family. A good visit, but the travel seems to have thrown Baby A's parents off kilter, and we're both struggling with some kind of virus that has us hacking and achy but so far our infant has managed to avoid.

This was Baby A's third coast-to-coast roundtrip, and she's proven herself a good traveler. We really only have one meltdown over Kansas (on our Christmas trip) to complain about, where she was furious for no clear reason and it took all four of her parent's hands and about 20 minutes of shushing to calm her down.

This time, our West Coast leg provided us with our first real confrontation with a stranger over a parenting decision.

(I ignore the woman on the Long Island Railroad platform when Baby A was 6 days old and accompanying M and me on a business trip M was making to Washington, D.C. When she found out the child's age, and noticed that Baby A wasn't yet wearing a hat in the October chill, the woman walked away muttering to herself. All I could make out was, "It's none of your business. It's none of your business.")

Our airline of choice typically leaves its front row open to the disabled and, if no disabled folks show up, to parents with infants. Thus we can usually get aisle seats steps from the front bathroom -- ideal for quick diaper changes and providing the least discomfort to us and fellow passengers.

So we got our boarding passes switched to the front row and happily tucked into our accustomed seats. Only trouble was, the fore lavatory had a malfunctioning smoke alarm, rendering it inaccessible to anyone but the crew. Could we use it simply for diaper changes? We won't even need to flush the toilet, we pleaded. No dice, came the answer. So we faced several long trudges to the rear bathrooms.

This wasn't such a big deal. But almost as soon as we began taxiing toward takeoff, with the "fasten seat belt" lights prominently lit, Baby A either peed or decided she could no longer tolerate a previously wet diaper for another second. And, as always when she makes such a determination, she began to notify the universe of her discomfort, loudly, clearly, and continuously, demanding that remedial action be taken.

This left us with three bad options: 1). Stay seated until we hit cruising altitude and allow Baby A to cry for 20 or so minutes. 2). Stand up, ignore the seat belt light, grab the diaper bag from the overhead compartment, grab the baby, and head to the "aft lavs," as the pilot insisted on calling them in his announcements; or 3). Stand up, grab the diaper bag, and change the baby on M's lap.

Haste, safety, and the interests of our fellow passengers seemed to dictate 3). as the obvious choice. So I stood up, grabbed the changing pad out of the diaper bag, spread it on M's lap, and M plopped Baby A down, unsnapped the lower portion of her onesie, and ripped open her diaper. I stood, empty plastic bag at the ready, to take the wet (not poopy) diaper and pass a clean one.

At which point a flight attendant bustling forward stopped at our seats in horror. "You can't do that there," she snapped.

M noted that we couldn't use the front bathroom and that the fasten seat belt light was on.

"Well, you have to wait," was the peremptory response. "You can't do that in your seats. It's unsanitary." She paused, her nose crinkling with disgust. "It's gross."

I stayed standing, shocked into silence. M may have muttered something. But there was nowhere to go but onward. I put the wet diaper in the plastic bag, and we finished the change, chagrined.

As I replaced the diaper bag into the compartment, a middle-aged man in the 2nd-row aisle seat leaned forward and said, "That was out of line. Clearly, that woman has never had children."

I was about to tell him that she could take her childless ass straight to hell, but I bit my tongue. M turned. "Thank you for saying that," she said. "You're very kind."

While no passengers seemed discomfited by the incident, the flight crew was frosty to us for the whole 6 hours.

First, as had never happened on any flight, I wasn't allowed to walk Baby A in the foreward flight attendant area. And later, when the pilots opened the cabin door to use the "fore lav," and the crew had to bar the front area with a drink cart, M was standing in the aisle to calm Baby A down. The pilot commented on Baby A's cuteness.

The witchy flight attendant was having none of it. "You can't stand in the front three rows while the cockpit door is open," she told M.

"Oh, don't worry about it," the pilot said. "I'll take responsibility for this one."

"No," the attendant said. "We have to follow the rules."

M sat down, and Baby A recommenced fussing. When I returned from the aft lav and heard M's tale, I picked up the baby, walked back to the fourth row, and glared directly at the attendant barricaded behind her cart. She caught my eye briefly, then glanced away. I stared daggers until the pilots relocked the cabin door.

When we got off at the Oakland airport, we were greeted with a broken child seat. We'd checked it at the JFK gate, and one of the two crews had slung it so hard that its plastic carrying handle had snapped from its mooring anchor. It could still function as a stationary car seat, but as a portable item it was useless. If I didn't know better, I'd have sworn the flight attendant had radioed down to the ground crew to do its worst.

Fortunately, Baby A had about outgrown the seat, and we were ready to get another. We didn't tell this to the luggage supervisor, who couldn't have been more polite and gave us a $100 discount on our next flight.

I didn't ask, but he probably had a kid or two.