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.