I have the perfect story for the next Samuel Jackson movie. Sam is a recently divorced (bad divorce) single parent with 2 year old triplets flying coast to coast alone with his kids – ‘Kids on the plane’ 
.
Flying with kids is painful – if it is painful for the passengers, it is hell for the parents who fly with them. My wife has the best attitude towards these things – she ignores the world around her and goes into absolute shamelessness. Nothing bothers her at that point. I, on the other hand, go to the other extreme. I become extremely sensitive of every person around me, the way they react, their verbal and non verbal cues. To me, till I get down from the plane, it is hell.
The whole process goes in stages. The first stage is the security clearance stage, where you remove your shoes and belt, empty your pocket and try to drag your kids across the metal detector. My kids, of course will scavenge and have a pocketful of coins – which they would refuse to split. You cajole them, beg them to drop the coins in the tray, at which point your kid will yank your belt-less trousers (you bought the next sized pant since you know you will bloat towards that soon) right under you.
You go past the security and that is when the T.S.A dudes and dudettes decide that you are the perfect candidate for in depth inspection. This time, their chatter went something like this:
“I think the elder one looks like Dad and younger one looks like mom.”
“No – I think it is the other way.”
“I think the elder one looks like neither – see, she has curly hair.”
At which point, my kids start explaining the princess toys they have in their backpacks, the ones that T.S.A dumped in its entirety for the world to see – diapers, baby food, dora and boots.
“I like princesses too.”
“How many princesses are there really? Only 2 right?”
“No – I think there is many, there is Ariel, there is Bell, there is Cinderella, there is Sleeping Beauty.”
“Technically, Ariel is not a princess. I am not sure if Bell is a princess too.”
You are right in the middle of a Tarantino script. Here they are, trying to figure out if you are a terrorist by analyzing the princess your kids like.
The next stage is the waiting area. You walk in with your kids. People are busy with their iPods and laptops, they look up and take a peek at your now screaming two year old.
“Oh fuck. I hope they are not in my flight.”
“Thank God – they went right past me.”
“Oh no. They are coming back.”
“Oh crap. They are sitting right next to me. Sigh.”
At this point, the person is wondering if it would be rude to get up and walk away. You see the nervous chuckle and they try to focus on the task in hand.
“Oh well. At least they don’t sit next to me in the plane. What are the chances of that?”
Kids – once they go past 2, till they are 4, are amazing. They can sense quite accurately which is the best time to throw a tantrum. In a nice family restaurant, inside the plane, right before they are about to see Mickey after a two hour wait – you get the picture.
There are two twilight zones in a plane travel. The first one is where you get into the plane and you wait for the takeoff and the pilot to say “You are now authorized to use approved electronics” and the second one when they say “Crew – prepare for landing. Please turn off your portable electronics.”
Between these two twilight zones exist the zone of peace where you can drown your kids with your iPod and movies – give them crayons and candy and try to humor them.
The twilight zones – no such luck. And this is where the kids do maximum damage. They scream and kick, they push and pull the food tray in front of them.
At this point, people in the plane know there are ‘kids in the plane’. I desperately look to see if there are any other kids in the plane, kids that have the potential to be louder than my kid. On my kind of a day, there usually will be one, who will pick up the cue and scream at the top of his lung. My day is made. Now there is another miserable parent. I feel much better already.
My wife, of course, is oblivious to all this nonsense. She is trying to pacify the kid, but the kid decides it needs Daddy right now, so the kid is back to you.
By now the evil eyes start. Annoyed passengers turn around, give you and your kid the evil eye.
“Look at that brat. What kind of parent raises a kid like that one?”
The evil eye turns into disapproving nods, they whisper to their neighbors and quietly smile amongst themselves.
The smart ones are now approaching the air hostess or checking the back of the plane to see if there are any empty seats right there.
In what seems like eternity – and you are acutely aware of theory of relativity, comes the voice you are dying to hear:
“You are now authorized to use approved electronics.”
Out comes the laptop and iPod, mickey and dora and spongebob will save me from here on.
On good days, this will go on until landing. On bad days, my kid would scream every now and then. You get the evil eyes again.
But by now, I am very exhausted and pissed. I start returning the evil eyes. If I can decipher our eye exchange:
“What the fuck are you looking at?”
“Look at you loser – can’t control a kid.”
“How does it matter? I see more reds than greens in that stupid status spreadsheet you are working on anyway.”
“You saw my fucking spreadsheet?”
“Yes and your iPod too. You should stop listening to ‘Barbie Girl’ – it was cool in 1997 – for kids, and you are like 45 now.”
In between, you find the compassionate co passenger or steward, usually one that has a two year old and has flown with one who helps you. You are really grateful for them.
I have had all kinds of non verbal assaults thrown at me. And sometimes verbal too, particularly when I am flying into Dallas (what is with that?), young women in their 20s and 30s are the worst.
“This has to stop right now.”
I give a feeble smile and think “Wait till you have triplets, bitch.”
At the end of it, the plane lands, you let go steam, you are happy that your kid did not throw her shoe in the air or pelt someone with her milk bottle.
One more flight done. You swear that you are not flying again for another two years.
Then I realized, we have flown to India with these kids a few times. And those are 14 + 4 + 4 hour rides. You don’t get these evil eyes there. I think I know the answer to that and I have a solution for within the country flights.
In the flights headed to Hong Kong, there are at least a dozen kids, all flying to China and India and wherever.
In the first many rows behind the ‘bassinet’ row – it is expected that you have kids there, you know that they are going to scream. Your expectation is set. Things are peaceful.
This is what the airlines must do. They should create ‘kid zones’ in the plane. It is like the ‘Splash zone’ in Shamu show. You know that if you want to see Shamu in all his glory, you must be in the splash zone. You will get wet – but Shamu performs for you. If you don’t want to get wet, you sit way up towards the edge of the stadium – all you can see is Shamu’s ass, but you are not wet.
Same deal.
The airlines are nickel and diming us any way. The cheapest ticket is in the kid zone. You assume that there will be screaming kids. For $10 more, you can sit two rows away, for $50 more, you can sit farthest away from the kids and so on.
Everyone is happy.
Until that happens, I am going to rent Sopranos all over again. Tony Soprano has this evil look which says “Fuck you mother-fucker”, I am going to practice it.
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, money doesn’t. [Substitute it with gold, silver, diamond whatever commodity turns you on].