"Dada, slow down!"

Fatherhood at Thirty-Thousand Feet

Living the life: eating graham crackers, coloring Elmo, and getting comfy in her chair on mid-flight.

A few weeks ago I took a flight with my two-year-old daughter.

It was a mess. 

We barely made it to the airport in time for the flight. Then, two TSA security personnel got into an argument about how to send people through the line. I was so frazzled getting my belt and shoes back on while getting my daughter in the stroller again that I left our suitcase at security when we went through.  Luckily, we were only halfway to the gate when I realized it was missing because every time I tried to jog my daughter wailed and said “No! Dada, slow down!” So I briskly walked back to the security checkpoint as quickly as I could without upsetting her.

As soon as we got the bag, they called my name over the intercom to let us know they were holding the plane, and I had to put my daughter into the stroller and break into a dead sprint across the airport. Either because she saw it on my face, or because we were going so much faster than before (probably the fastest she had ever moved across land without being in a vehicle), she played it cool and did not wail or tell me to slow down.  We made it just as they were closing down the gate.

I gate-checked the stroller and arrived at the plane drenched in sweat, panting, to see every other passenger seated and ready to go. The flight only had a handful of open seats and they had to make an announcement asking if anyone would move so we could sit together. After what felt like an eternity of slowly marching back and forth in the aisle, doing my best humble apology face, two lovely women finally offered their seats. I apologized to the seat next to me then peeled my wet hoodie off and got my daughter settled in with all of her snacks and toys. The accommodating flight attendants made baby talk to my daughter and gave me three cups of coffee. 

We were seated on the edge of what I think was a middle school girls’ traveling softball team who were very sweet and made funny faces at my daughter. And for the rest of the flight, she was a complete darling. She smiled, giggled, waved, and ate snacks, then played with her toys or drew neon doodles on the one app on my phone she knows how to use. Every twenty minutes or so, she would even get bored of doodling long enough for me to read a page or two from my book. I had to do three diaper changes, and each time my daughter insisted on walking herself and waving to people.

When we landed, many of the other passengers waved bye to my daughter. After the sweaty, hectic, public ordeal of getting on the flight, the actual flight wasn’t too bad. But I thought to myself, “I don’t know if I’ll do a 1:1 flight like this any time soon if I have the option.” But today I’m flying again, solo this time. I realized, a little begrudgingly, that I miss having my daughter here! Flying without a toddler is bland and flavorless.

Just reading a book or browsing Substack while we taxi seems boring and dry now. The row seems too quiet. It lacks a certain je ne sais quoi that answering my daughter’s “wha doing” question every 30 seconds provides. There’s no chance of the thrill that my book might jump up at any moment and spill my water or coffee all over me. Going to the bathroom is no longer a full-contact sport. 

The ticket for the flight I’m currently on was part of a promotion, and once I land I’ll be prompted to select one person who gets my temporary “companion pass.” This means for a few months next year, they get to accompany me on every flight for free. Most of my flights in the last year have been to see my sister, who is also my orthodontist, and who is helping me prepare for oral surgery. I talked to my wife and we have decided to make my daughter my companion and take her to see her aunt and uncle and cousins when I travel for my post-surgery checkups in the Fall.

One thing becoming a father has taught me is how quickly I can adjust to things, and how much the things that I feel are a struggle at the time become some of my favorite things later. Because it’s funny–as anxious or frustrated as I get–and as much of a mess as it was to get to the airplane with my daughter, those experiences are both the ones from which I grow the most and the most memorable.

The difficult, frustrating, embarrassing experiences carry more capacity for growth and memory not necessarily because they are difficult, but because I have to be more present. And that’s the case even when my daughter is not wailing from the stroller, screaming “No! Dada, slow down!”