Solo Parenting at 30,000 feet

The Elevator Scare

I see fear flash across my preschooler’s face as the lift doors close and she disappears from sight.  Oh shit, Up! Up! Up! I frantically press the button.  The doors bounce back, open to the sound of Méabh thinking her Mum had left her to travel Europe on her own.  We were five minutes into our adventures and I’d nearly lost my child to an elevator.  

Airport Adventures: From Security to Boarding

Quickly finding our calm, we checked in and proceeded through security, validated there were no explosives on our body.  I forced Méabh to eat her squashed tuna sushi, before paying for an overpriced strawberry squeeze – with half of both ending up down her front.  With the dirtiest child in Adelaide Airport, we walked towards International Departures.  “Hannah, slow down!”, I hear from behind me.  Hannah? Who is this little lady?  I had to remind myself that we had 6 months of walking side-by-side in Europe.  Even walking a fraction of my normal pace makes for a very easy child kidnapping. So I listened to the boss and slowed down.  I have a few lessons to learn from my travel companion. 

We passed through security and immigration, directed by a militant-style officer who no doubt moonlighted as an army commando. He barked clear instructions about the restricted use of mobile phones and the need to put liquids in a clear plastic bag — and yet, people still didn’t listen.  I find airports a breeding ground for idiots.  “Mum, are you using your phone?”.  “No, Mum always listens to instructions”.  I cackled to myself, acknowledging the lesson I had just imparted on my daughter.  

Flying High: Seats, Snacks, and Screen Time

Finally, we boarded — having the absolute privilege of going first, thanks to the straggler beside me.  “Keep going,” I told Méabh, as she navigated her Paw Patrol suitcase down the narrow aisle.  Last row. Window and middle seat. Right next to the toilets. Excellent.  During the flight, I noticed it wasn’t full — a large majority of middle seats were empty. I cursed myself for not requesting a change, which would normally be my style.

On a plane, I’m strangely routine-driven and organised – the opposite to the chaos of my personality on land.  There’s a reason for my overly ritualistic behaviour and it involves a small aircraft, two non-English speaking pilots and several suspicious beeps (blog incoming).  So, naturally, I have convinced myself that it is my OCD-like traits that prevent catastrophic events. 

As meals were served, it dawned on me that I was the luckiest person on this plane — despite the seating arrangements. We were 30,000 feet away from chicken nuggets and chips, meaning Méabh barely touched her gourmet airline food. I gleefully thought, Double meals for me.  Satisfactorily full from both a pasta and rice dish, I settled in for a corny movie or two. Well past her bedtime, Méabh remained glued to the TV. I silently thanked whoever invented the concept of a dog-man saving a city — it had fully captured my child’s attention. Eventually, as her eyelids began to droop, she gently tapped me on the arm.  “Mum, I think I’m ready for bed.”  Goodnight, Méabh.

Sleep and Survival: Battling for Rest at 30,000 Feet

With Méabh occupying half of my seat as if she’d paid for it, I tucked myself sideways into a position that was more painful than practical. I attempted to get some shut-eye, drifting off to the soothing sounds of the toilet flushing. A big reason I opt for the aisle seat on long-haul flights is the freedom — the luxury of going to the toilet on my terms is unheard of when trapped in the middle or window seat. I spent a solid hour building the courage to wake Old Man Sleeping Beauty for the chance to stretch my cramped legs.   And I had to do it twice more.  Forget fear of flying, it’s fear of waking the aisle seat occupants that really gets me. 

During our final hour, despite a moderate sleep, an overtired monster inhabited Méabh’s body. At one point I was arguing with her about the current Bluey episode on screen that she insisted was not the “right one” but continued to claim was the one she wanted to watch. Reality thinking had exited the plane and was sadly left at 30,000 feet, just as we began our descent and continued to battle nonsensically.

Lounge Life: Luxury for a Mum and Toddler

We landed in the same grizzly manner, but this behaviour soon shifted when I told her we were going to sneak into a “fun” lounge. “Does it have a playground?” she asked. “No, but it has a buffet!” I replied. So what if we had varying definitions of fun? It was my holiday too. If you know me, you know I’m not exactly the “lounge-type.” However, twice a year I get to experience a moment of luxury thanks to my complimentary passes from my CommBank rewards card. We lined up to enter the lounge with a bunch of obnoxious men carrying man bags, who cared very little about queuing etiquette. But I graciously adopted the “Let Them” theory as they carelessly cut in front of me. 

I had pre-warned Méabh that I was going to lie about her age, as my “guest” was only free if they were under 2. Rookie error — she became personally offended, insisting she was 4. I told her people would kill to look her age, and lied through my teeth when the front desk attendant asked. Thankfully, no proof of age was requested and in we went — me and my obnoxiously tall 2-year-old — to Al Maha Lounge in Hamad International Airport.

Connecting Flights: Train to Plane and Juice Spills

After indulging in a small omelette, some yoghurt and spilling an orange juice, our time as ladies of leisure was over. Given Hamad International Airport rivals Adelaide City in size, we had to jump on a train. Méabh commented, “No, I want to take the plane!” I told her we were taking “the train to get to the plane” and immediately felt like breaking out in song, mimicking Eliza Doolittle from My Fair Lady. 

Boarding was uneventful. We had a middle and aisle seat—sadly I drew the short straw and sat in the middle, now only trapped by a tiny human and her headset. The plane ride was as expected—long and arduous. Méabh spilt apple juice twice. It took all my strength to adopt a “gentle parenting” tone, knowing full well it could have been me. The kids behind us were tiny agents of terror who cackled loudly, kicked chairs and quite frankly wouldn’t shut up. Those parents took gentle parenting to the extreme as they did sweet F A. The last hour was tortuous filled with explosions with laughter, tears and demands as we descended into Ireland.

Reflections from 30,000 Feet

I feel gross. After eating non-stop and practically double portions for 24 hours, I feel oh so big. Not to mention Aunt Flo arriving mid-flight. Somewhere over the English Channel I lost my ankles, and my calves are so tight they could snap.

I can’t fault Méabh for her behaviour on this journey. Although she’s watched a year’s worth of Gabby’s Dollhouse along the way, she still listened, was mostly cautious, sat mostly still, and was mostly brilliant. My obnoxiously tall two-year-old behaved strangely like a mature three-and-a-half-year-old. I reckon everything’s going to be alright.