Flying with an 18 month old AKA the Flight from Hell

The one and only cute moment of our journey

So I don’t know if I jinxed myself by being so worried about flying with my toddlers, or if it was just always destined to be an horrendous experience. As it turns out, I was completely justified in my pre-flight concern because the entire journey was a freaking NIGHTMARE!

My first clue that we were in for a wild ride came when the Stuntman woke up 4 times the night before we left, crying hysterically and clawing at his face. Oh. Hello canines, your timing is impeccable. Fuck.

We had to leave the house by 6am, so after about 4 hours of broken sleep, we all clamboured into the car with our 27 bags and drove the entire 30 minutes to the airport being serenaded by the Stuntman, who was still hollering and crying even after doses of paracetamol, ibuprofen, teething powder and Bonjela. He screamed blue murder as we checked our bags in, wept and wailed as we did laps around the airport waiting to board, and then picked it up a notch with some guttural sobs as we actually got on the plane. I saw people giving me vicious death stares as they realised that the noise that sounded like a fire alarm going off was actually coming from the wee blonde head strapped to my front. I refused to make eye contact with anyone, even the ones who were giving me looks of pity (although there were not many of those…).

We were in 3 seats in a row of 4, with the Stuntman supposedly going to sit on my lap. Or Mr McD’s lap. Or the lap of some kind stranger. I wasn’t fussed really. But as soon as I released him from the Manduca (baby carrier), he wriggled out of my arms and onto the floor, did a little commando belly shuffle and scarpered up the plane aisle out of reach. Fortunately I could still hear him, even though he was out of sight within the 20 seconds it took me to extricate myself from my seat.

After hauling him back down from half-way up the stairs leading to first class (we were on an A380), he was even more resistant to sitting still than he had been before (if that’s even possible). He’d tasted freedom, you see, and was desperate to break free of his shackles. By this stage, a woman and her very calm but absolutely enormous toddler had settled into the 4^th seat in our row, and was looking at us warily. I tried to smile apologetically through my gritted teeth but it’s very possible that it came out more like a grimace. Or some kind of animalistic teeth-baring snarl. She didn’t look at us much after that.

The flight attendant told us (rather sternly) to sit down and get ready for take-off, so Mr McD and I had to actually hold the Stuntman down on my lap to strap on the infant belt. More screaming. More wriggling and writhing. More deep breathing from me, and near-hyperventilating from Mr McD. All I could think was that this was going to be a very long 3 hours.

And it was. The poor little guy was absolutely beside himself; with pain, with outrage at being strapped down, and with overtiredness. Thank goodness I hadn’t actually weaned him yet, as “boo boo” was the only thing that calmed him down at all. So I manoeuvred him onto the breast for take-off (which is easier said than done with one of those infant strap things between us), and he settled into a kind of sob-suck-sob routine for a few minutes.

Once we were levelling out in the air, he came off the boob and starting crying all over again. The giant toddler next to us started trying to cheer him up, by giving him stickers (shoving them in his face), stroking his hair (banging him on the head), and tickling him (poking him in the belly), which didn’t help the situation at all. It was at this point that a flight attendant came over and told the woman that there were two spare seats in the row behind that she and her man-sized toddler could move into. Phew.

Then the meal arrived, and I realised that I hadn’t actually requested something dairy- and soy-free for myself. Not that eating with the Stuntman on my lap was an option anyway. So I looked on, longingly, as Mr McD and Little Miss enjoyed their aeroplane breakfasts with the little packets of everything, while I pinched some of the baby’s dry DF/SF crackers. Yummo.

After the meal was cleared away the Stuntman started rubbing his eyes, so I wrestled him back on the boob in the hope that he’d fall asleep for a while. Which he did, but only while the boob remained in his mouth. If I dared to try and remove my nipple from between his teeth, I was rewarded with a swift bite, and a screech so loud and indignant that attendants came running from all directions. I think he slept – fitfully – on the boob for about 20 minutes total. After which he woke up and started screaming again. Nothing could distract him; not books, toys, the iPad or snacks. We took him for little walks around the plane, but this only made him want to run around more, so made things worse really. 

His sister, meanwhile, was sitting like a perfect little cherub watching the iPad, only looking up every now and again to say “Shhhh… I can’t hear it.”

It really was the worst flight I’ve ever been on. Humiliating, exhausting, heart-wrenching and painful – both physically and psychologically.

In fact, my anxiety about the return flight actually overshadowed some of the enjoyment of the rest of the holiday! Luckily, our return flight was much less eventful, with both kids sleeping most of the way home.

What about you? Have you experienced a flight from hell too?  Please share your stories so I don’t feel like we’re the only ones!