The Mile High Club

I've got a dirty little secret. I've been known to mess around in airplane bathrooms. It's true. I have an intimate acquaintance with that disgusting, smelly, shit house (pardon my language, but it's really the only way to describe it) at the back of the Airbus. Before your mind gets stuck in the gutter, let me give you a few details.

I'll get to the real dirty stuff later but I'd like to begin by telling you that I've never been a fan of flying. As a child, my ears would ache desperately as the pressure changed. My head would throb, my throat would gag and my stomach would empty all its contents, usually onto my sister's lap. As I got older and more experienced, my ears stopped being an issue, but my desire to vomit only eased slightly.

Even now, as I conjure up the smell of that rancid airplane - the kind of smell you get when you combine old people and stale chips in plastic zip-lock bags - my nose crinkles and my tongue withdraws to the back of my mouth. I'm not the ideal flying partner. In the last five years, I've managed to ruin my husband's favourite cowboy hat, and deface my sister's designer jeans.

But I continue to travel. Not unlike the pains of labour, at the end of the journey I quickly forget the short-lived misery and I've made friends with the old WC. So long as there are no long line ups, my sister’s jeans and Ken's hats are probably safe.


My family lives far away and it is not an option for my children to miss out on knowing their grandmother, aunt, uncle, and cousins. The Promised Land, as I like to refer to my Nova Scotia, has interesting history, unassuming beauty, and charming people. It is important to me that Neal and Ella grow to appreciate their maternal roots. So, in spite of my queasy tendencies, I've already made numerous trips back home, little ones in tow.

In all honesty, when Neal was an infant, flying with him was fairly relaxing. He was the most easygoing baby on the block. As long as he was in his car seat, he was content and happy to sleep away the hours. While he slept, I could convince myself that I felt fine as I devoured a book, delighted in trashy TV, and sipped my smooth ginger ale, pretending it was really gin.


Things became a little more complicated travelling with Neal whilst pregnant with baby number two. I did not glow, as some pregnant chicks do. My face was consistently a pale shade of green and I had to pee every five minutes. This made air travel particularly...interesting. Thankfully, the kind people at Westjet recognized the significance of my bulbous shape and sat us directly across from the bathroom.

Neal remained angelic but, on this particular flight, space did not allow for his car seat and I had to hold him on my disappearing-by-the-minute lap. As he bounced up and down on my bladder, desperation set in. There was no holding it. The flight attendants had kindly offered to hold Neal if I needed a break, but they were nowhere to be seen.

Sitting next to me were some lovely Scottish blokes. While I can't say enough nice things about the typical service we get from Westjet employees, it didn't go unnoticed how the female flight attendants were paying extra special attention to these gentlemen before take-off. They were practically tripping over-themselves to assist and flirting mercilessly with the kind but somewhat bedraggled salt and pepper, big-haired fellas. I assumed these guys had clout. They must be pilots, I thought to myself.

Whatever their status, they seemed friendly enough and more importantly: close by. So I casually inquired if the gray haired grandpa could hold Neal while I checked out the loo. "Love to!" was his response.

A few hours later, after the plane had landed and us kids at the back were not-so-patiently waiting to exit, the flight attendants resumed gushing over my new buddies. Eavesdropping a little more intentionally, I gathered that they were NOT pilots after all. They were members of a some band that was putting on a show in Halifax. Later on Ken figured out they were Nazareth. Never heard of them? Neither had I, but you'd be surprised by how many people were impressed when I told them that the lead singer of Nazareth babysat my boy! Ken was impressed.

Now I have two babies to juggle. A few weeks ago we spent ten glorious days basking in the autumnal glow of maritime paradise. The flight there was completely uneventful. I have TWO angelic, not to mention adorable, mini jetsetters. I figured that all of my own childhood travelling woes must have been dues paid in advanced to the god of travel (Its Hermes by the way – god of travel, messengers, trade, thievery, cunning wiles, language, writing, diplomacy, athletics, and animal husbandry, an interesting mix).

Watching the innocence in Neal's animated eyes as we sat on the tarmac and hearing him yell, "wook, airpane!!" as other aircrafts rolled by, made the long journey before us almost exciting for me. Ella, bouncing on my knee and charming all the passengers with her big brown eyes and contagious grin, generated unashamed pride. As I said, the trip to Halifax was a breeze. We were the model family (minus the dad who was staying home to take care of the dog). I felt like a superstar mom. I thought I was ready to be presented with my golden wings. Clearly, Hermes has a short memory. I had more dues to pay. And I'm pretty sure that I did...on the trip home.


We're about to get into the dirty stuff.


An hour into the return trip, Ella was sleeping in my aching arms and Neal was enjoying the silent animated "winkinocks" on Treehouse. I hate that stupid kid's show and I'm glad that Neal doesn't seem to mind watching without earphones. I'm pretty sure Neal's second language of Gibberish was partially derived from that show and I kick myself for letting him watch it during such formative years. Most likely, when he's a middle aged man in therapy, all his issues will be traced back to Iggle Piggel's subliminal messages. I'm sorry. I digress.

As per usual, we were seated next to my trusty old stink house. A steady stream of visitors stopped to greet us (mostly Ella) before and after they checked out the facilities. The repeat customers had become very friendly and believed that a single twenty-second polite exchange gave them the right to stroke Ella's hair and pinch her cheeks. Needless to say, she didn’t sleep for very long.

It also didn’t help that the lady kitty-corner to us was on her fourth glass of wine and was about to be cut off. She'd gotten louder and louder as the journey wore on. On her third trip to the washroom, she stopped to tell me that she'd just been to the Cape Breton Celtic festival and had had a fantastic time. She was particularly impressed with Cape Breton's whisky. The following day she was supposed to compete in a rowing competition in Victoria. She didn’t look like a rower to me. She was slurring her words through sips of wine, and I predicted that she probably wouldn't do very well.

Suddenly the plane lurched and reminded us all that we were in fact, FLYING in the sky. My stomach reminded me that it doesn't like flying in the first place. Neal was stoked. "Woo HOO! Hold on tight Mommy!" Turbulence. The pilot flipped on the seatbelt sign.

The turbulence subsided and Neal had lost interest in Treehouse. Suddenly he was singing a little ditty that I'm ashamed to say I taught him. It was the song we sing when I want him to do his business. The next thing I knew, a very serious look appeared on his face. Oh no. I recognized that serious look. The mother-of-the-year in me said a silent prayer and asked that he didn't just do what I think he did. Then I tried to erase the look from my memory...ignorance is bliss, right? Bad mother!

No such luck. Neal, who had NEVER really expressed interest in potty training, who normally could care less what was in his diaper, decided that the "Poo Poo Potty" room could be a rather interesting distraction. He informed me for the first time in his life that he NEEDED me to change his diaper. Let the initiation to the fun club begin...

Once again the flight attendants were MIA. What to do with Ella? There was no way I was going to let Silken Shiraz across from us hold my baby. The other folks around us were fast asleep. I had no option but toss Ella in the ol' baby Bjorn. I braced myself for an interesting experience.

Remember the old shtick where they try to see how many clowns can fit into a car? There's a new version out there, where they try to see how many Wilson's can fit into an airplane bathroom. The answer? Two and a half. We were at capacity and could barely close the door behind us. I work well under pressure though, and I coaxed myself into believing that changing Neal with Ella was plastered to my chest was not an impossible feat.

I managed to flick down the toilet seat with my foot and lift Neal up to stand on it. There. This was a start. Ella laughed wickedly as I tried to pull off Neal's Spiderman pants. Her little hands managed to also grab his pants and as I was attempting to pull down, she was pulling up. As the pant battle wore on and Ella started to lose her grip, she began to get irate. The subtitles on her screams read: "What are you doing woman??? If you take that diaper off in this tiny cubical, we're all going to be asphyxiated!"

Meanwhile, Neal thought the whole experience was fabulous! He had never seen the inside of an airplane bathroom before. He had never seen so many napkins stuffed behind a shiny metal wall. He had NO CHOICE but to pull them out one by one, fling them in the air, and watch as they fell like silent snow on Mommy and Ella's head. This was fun.


I'll spare you the rest of the Gory details of my initiation into the Mile High club. Just know that it wasn't pretty… but it rhymed with pretty.

As we exited, sweat dripping off my forehead, my big frizzy hair (with a few more grey ones than before) plastered to my head. I felt breathless and, needless to say, very nauseous but I’d made it through hell and come out the other side.

The flight attendant asked if I needed a drink.

I was tempted to point to the happy rower and say, "Yes! I'll have what she's having"...but instead I heard my voice say, "GIN-gerale" please.

In a few weeks we will be taking another airplane trip, but this time Daddy will be with us. I wonder if he's ever been initiated into the mile high club. If he hasn't I'll have a chat with Hermes. I'm pretty sure Daddy has some dues to pay.

Watch the Stinker

During Ella's first month of life, she slept most of the day. She was the most peaceful thing I had ever laid eyes on. No jostling, loud noises, cold face clothes could wake her from that deep dreaming state. I know she dreamed. Her eyelids would flutter and her little mouth would twitch into a blissful smile. Our nanny, Edna, who is very catholic, would make the comment, "look, she's talking to her angel." That would make me smile. Despite a turbulent environment filled with Daddy's dark days of depression, Mommy's swinging hormones, Neal's two year old excitability, Ella slept. Her presence, in spite of all these outside disruptions, brought calmness. She was perfection and peace.

All (sleeping) babies are perfect, I think. At least mine were. We celebrate a baby's birth because it is a joyous time. Babies don't DO anything. They just ARE and people are drawn to their stillness. For the first six months, people have no serious expectations of babies. I felt like a superstar, walking through the park with my little bundle strapped to my chest. People of all walks of life would gaze in my direction and look at me with kind soft eyes, and flash me warm smiles. I would have to remind myself that they weren't really lavishing this adoration on me; they were naturally drawn to beautiful baby anchored to my chest. I remember experiencing the same thing when Neal was an infant not to mention when the Moo was a puppy. I also remember how short that period of perfection lasted.

I think it ended at 12 weeks. At 12 weeks, babies are handed their first expectation. They are expected to sleep for longer periods of time. Chatting with other new Moms, the topic would inevitably land on sleep or lack thereof.

Thankfully, my baby boy had been a pretty good sleeper, so I had no concerns. He measured up but a few months later, the question on everybody's mind was:."Is he sitting?" Then: "Is he crawling?" and of course the big one: "Is he walking?"

We desperately want our children to succeed and those first milestones, meaningless as they are in the grand scheme of things, are so laden with expectation among parents. The idea that one's child may not keep up with their peers intellectually, or worse that the parent, him or herself, has not provided the right kinds of opportunities for their child to succeed, stirs the pot of insanity. As a teacher, before having children of my own, I had observed many parents inflicted with this inner turmoil, or as I had come to describe it wing-nuttiness.

My personal favourite wing-nut was the mother of a student in my Grade One class many years ago. "Flexible Grouping" was a common practice at this particular school. There were multiple classes at each grade level and the teachers worked together and frequently traded students for various subjects. In Math, we decided that it would be helpful to have homogeneous classes - that is, students of like ability working together. We created the classes based on a "pre-test" and then placed the students in their appropriate level.

The students were never told WHAT level was what, merely that each class was working on different skills that would challenge them. One day shortly after the new Math classes were underway, I had a request from a parent to meet with me. She was flustered as she attempted to explain her concerns. She knew that we had leveled the students in Math. She knew who the “top students” were. She asked her son if he was in the same class as them and when he told her "no" she was SHOCKED and presumed that we had made a mistake. Her son was GIFTED in Math. To prove that her son belonged with the "top students" she invited several of these kids over to her house after school and gave them a test of her own.

"See," she said, "my child outdid them. He BELONGS in the high level class." Mindboggling. As a childless teacher, I swore up and down that if I ever had children of my own, I would NEVER be that nuts...

Flash-forward 9 years.

When Ella was three weeks old, I enrolled Neal in a gymnastics class. Yeah, I know. The idea of attempting to do anything when you are three weeks postpartum is insane enough, but my heart was in the right place. I figured that having a fun one-on-one activity with Neal would help ease the transition for him.

The key word is fun. It was supposed to be fun. After twenty minutes of the first class, we were NOT having fun. He was over-stimulated by the colourful apparatus and throngs of children. An empath by nature, he was absorbing the exciting energy emanating from the thirty-some kids ranging from eighteen months to four years in age who were bouncing everywhere and every way. My little dude was ready to jump out of his skin. To top it off, the coaches expected us to sit still and listen to long, drawn out instructions, and to, politely, wait for our turn on the trampoline. The experience could be likened to taming a butterfly. It wasn't going to happen. We recognized that he wasn't ready for this kind of chaotic structure and politely asked the head coach if we could defer our admission until the fall session. Her response: "How old is he?"

"He just turned Two."

"We don't refund or defer admissions. He will be fine though. EIGHTEEN-MONTH-OLD kids do this class.

And there it was, BAM! the loaded expectation that if kids six months younger than ours could do this, we had NO CHOICE but to prove that ours was equally capable. So, for the next three Wednesdays, Neal and I stumbled our way through the corridors of toddler/parent wonderland, pretending that the grotesque, enchanted gym was fun, but in reality feeling quite trapped and bitter. Tantrums ensued. I listened to my own voice repeating: "no" while my inner voice screamed expletives.

Fun? Oh yeah, it was a barrel of monkeys, I tell ya! I knew before starting the third class that my energy reserves were low. Ella had been up most of the night. I was running on sheer adrenaline. I tried to prepare myself mentally for gymnastics class but Neal was in monkey mode before we even set foot on the mats. The instructor had gathered all the toddlers in a circle. "Put your hands on your head, if you're listening," she sang. Neal's hands (and feet) were thrashing about as I tried to hold him on my lap. It seemed all the other automaton children were sitting calmly. Mine was a tornado. The other parents sat smugly, with thoughts so loud they could rival Neal's shrieks: "Thank God my kid is listening". Ouch.

Neal managed to propel himself free from my grip and stormed across the sea of blue bouncy mats, hurling himself into the quicksand pit. No, really. I'm not being poetic here. There was a pit of endless foam blocks and once one was immersed in them, he or she would have to perform the Michael Phelps butterfly stroke in order to avoid suffocation.

It was beautiful. By the time I rescued Neal, sweat dripping off my forehead, our teacher was demonstrating to the class how to do handstands against the wall. I felt my little contortionist, go limp as I dragged him across the mat back to the three ring circus. I was enlightened by a flash of truth for brief moment. This was NOT fun. We were outta there and never looked back.

By the time I got to the car, both Neal and I were flooded with tears. Feeling like a failure, I tried to figure out where we had gone wrong. Suddenly, my perfect, beautiful, baby boy was a muddy reflection of my own shortcomings. Disturbing thoughts trampled through my mind. Why couldn't Neal sit quietly and follow the instructions like his toddler peers? Was he developmentally delayed? What if he had a severe learning disability? What if he was emotionally stunted? What if he had some form of autism? How did this happen? What were we going to do? Yes, I suddenly identified with those scared wing-nut parents that I vowed I would never be.

My husband, who is no stranger to wing-nut land, was in the midst of reading Eckhart Tolle's book, "The Power of Now" and kept repeating the mantra, "Watch the Thinker". He tried to impart Eckhart’s theory that our mind imprisons us in the past and future and that our thoughts (certainly our negative ones) serve no purpose but to cause suffering. If we can live in the "now" and be aware and separate from our thoughts, only then will we master our emotions. Living in a society that values intelligence and good thinkers, it is a difficult paradigm to appreciate. Yet, my mind was certainly causing me a great deal of pain and, when the anxiety started to creep in, I decided I needed to try to further my practice of "living in the now".

A friend of mine suggested I try meditation. I pondered the idea. Meditation, like the thing you do at the end of a yoga class. Oh dear God, did I really want to attempt another Yoga experience? I have tried Yoga on three previous occasions and while I know that Yoga is supposed to be all about finding Zen and serenity, it has only caused me humiliation and pain.

Simply put, I hate Yoga. The first time I tried it was with my staff in the school library. We were told to take off our socks and shoes. It was at the end of a long day. I did as I was told and seconds later the polished Parisian lady a few mats over was turning her nose up with extreme concern. "What is zat stink? It smells like feet!" I knew I was the culprit, but I wasn't about to raise my hand and tell the staff, "yes, fellow Yogis, it's MY feet that you smell." When I saw the fastidious French lady pulling her own foot towards her nose and shaking her head, I got the giggles, immature giggles that you can't control. The rest of the class was an exercise in extreme pain. I couldn't concentrate on anything other than trying to hide my foot stink.

The next time I tried Yoga it was with a friend I was carpooling with. We decided to stop by the university on the way home and check out the class. It was really her idea, but I tagged along anyway, thinking that maybe my second Yoga experience would be better. It wasn't. It didn't bode well that we were late. People stared at us as we quickly tried to melt into the "peaceful" studio. The teacher wasn't impressed with my lack of flexibility and kept trying to correct my positions. I didn't really want to be corrected. I wanted to be invisible.

Just when I thought I could be invisible when we started the cool down meditation, my cell phone rang. Embarrassed and angry with myself for neglecting to turn it off, I looked at my choices: Ignore the phone - because who would know it was mine? Or suck it up and turn it off. Ignoring the phone didn't work. The person calling (my Mom) was persistent. She called three times.

The last time I tried Yoga, I was pregnant and flatulent. Need I say more?

So, it took a lot of courage for me to seek out a PRIVATE meditation session with a life coach last week. In the 90 minute session, she walked me through various "Mindfulness" routines and sent me off with homework. My task was to take time each day to truly focus my attention on living in the present moment. To fully engage my senses in every way and to observe my thoughts as though they were playing on a movie screen.

In the meantime, I’ve read that book Ken was quoting The book added a structure and set of rules to something that had been a part of my approach to life. Watching the thinker changed from useless advice from my husband to something I could put into practice. It was almost like learning magic spells.

So I've been putting forth my best effort to "watch the thinker" and my first real test came a couple of days ago. It happened at Chapters, in the kid’s area, a frequent haunt for Neal and I. Neal was quietly pushing Thomas the Tank Engine along the tattered train table and my attention was drawn to a Mom and little boy sitting at the table next to where I was standing. The Mom was touching the bright colours of an abacus, her fingertips sliding each ball from one side to the other. Clearly and precisely, the little boy was counting as she moved the colourful balls. I couldn't help but watch impressively as he made it all the way to 100. Knowing that it was a goal for my grade 1 students to count and understand the concept of 100, I figured that this little boy must be a very bright a 4 year old. He didn't look much bigger than Neal, but then again Neal sometimes fits into size 4 clothes. I smiled at the boy and the Mom and exclaimed in my familiar teacher voice, "What a good counter you are! How old are you?" He answered, "I'm two!" BAM! There it was again, that sharp kick to my emotional intestines. And then I managed to catch the thinker.

Babbling confidently to himself, wearing his best Spider-man apparel, my Son looked up at me and shrieked, "HI MOM!" and once again I was momentarily enlightened. He may not sit for a twenty minute gymnastics dissertation, he cannot count to 100, but my two year old has what every adult human envies: He is happy. He loves life and he has not yet internalized the burden of expectations. I hope he never does.