53J

It certainly seemed like a good idea at the time.

53J - that was seat I chose - near the front of the plane, multiple rows from the bathrooms so I wouldn't have to hear the constant, intensely loud sucking noise following five hundred people needing to urinate at least twice per flight.  I wondered why there were so many spare seats around the front of the plane, but there was nothing in my consciousness that screamed 'Red Alert!'

I should have looked closer.

53J is, of course, two rows behind 51A,B,C,D,E,F,G,H,I,J which happen to be section of the plane reserved for young parents, or what I will affectionately call now, the Nursery.  As Greta and I took our seats, we smugly looked around at all the suckers who were sitting so much farther back in the plane.  We would be the first ones off the plane (other than first and business class - don't get me started on my covetousness of those always-out-of-budget seats), we had close enough access to the bathrooms and to top it all off, we had the window and middle seats.  The only thing that could ruin it would be...

A noise emanated from the front, one that I'd heard many times before, but I'd forgotten how insistent and shrill and piercing and miraculous that it could come from such a small bundle of flesh.  As boarding was still taking place, a mother stood up quickly to rock the infant, probably less than two months old.  On her face was an anxious look, probably the nightmare that she'd been dreaming of for the last four months after they'd purchased the tickets.  Was this going to occur for the entire fourteen hour flight?

You bet your bottom dollar.

Her eyes were focussed on her baby, but her peripheral vision was on high alert for passengers who might be disconcerted by the bundle in her arms.

But that sound!  Like an alarm clock on extreme levels of steroids!

I looked at Greta who looked at me and our eyes widened with a realisation that this indeed could be a much longer flight than we could ever have imagine.  But that's when the humour started.  This baby's cry seemed to be like Tarzan's cry to the apes - AAAAAAA-aaaaaa-aa-aa-AAAAAA-aa-aaa-aa-AAAAAA.  Come to me fellow infants!  Bring your outside voices into the cozy confines of the fuselage!  We will unite as one to allow no sleep to this motley band of travellers!  Come.  Come share in the glory!

Within seconds the next parent popped up from her seat staring momentarily at Tarzan, eyebrows flexed, her own nightmare beginning.  Then the next.  And the next.  And the next.  They were like that 'Pound the Gopher' game where the contestant is given a mallet and gophers pop up all around him at various intervals.

All of the parents, mothers and fathers, were in different stages of mollifying nursing infants, when one baby would calm, the next would start up, which then in turn would set off the Nursery again.  Embarrassed faces, worried about the thoughts that were raging unseen and unheard towards them, knowing that every person from rows 52 through 57 was now pondering deep inside their souls, "Ah, so this is why there were so many good seats at the front of the plane."

As the cacophony continued (still before takeoff), the flight attendants were streaming towards the back of the plane with felt covered boxes filled with felt covered pouches which were handed to the residents of Fuselage City.  Greta and I opened the felt pouch and with simultaneous giggles noticed that the attendants had given us eyeshades, but also ear plugs.

Qantas thinks of everything.

As the plane began to taxi, I put my headphones in and turned on a movie, but the Nursery was in full force.  I turned the volume up, but it was impossible to entirely drown out the noise, and I'm sure God made us that way for a reason.  When people are hurting, lonely, distressed or anxious, our brains have been wired to do something about it.  When children scream that the pressure in the cabin is too much, we do something about it.  When children grow up and they scream about pressure, pain, loneliness or anxiety, we do something about it - not just placate them or distract them with toys, video games or even a nice little pat on the head - but listen, act and help.

The parents were doing a fantastic job of attempting to work with their infants, and I smiled four hours into the flight as the 'Pound the Gopher' game continued with moms and dads alternating the rocking, the shushing and the hoping that one of the other infants would not scream to wake their own child.  But never once did I see anything beyond frustration at the circumstances - none of the parents were angry with their child; it was only unmeasured love and everyone else was going to have to deal with their own selfishness.

This is what we do as faithful people.  In the midst of our own selfish desires to have everything we want on this long journey called life, together with people we may, or may not, have invited, flying over uncharted seas, suffering the 'potholes in the air' that Christine calls them, we take care of the kids.

When we alit in Los Angeles fourteen hours later less than two hours of sleep stowed in our bag of exhaustion, I put my carryon back together, pulled the earplugs from my ears and smiled at the parents.

They had made it.  Welcome to the club.

AAAAAAA-aaaaaa-aa-aa-AAAAAA-aa-aaa-aa-AAAAAA!

Goodbye 53J.