I Don’t Know How To Do This
The Confessions of a Humble Parent
It was approaching 7PM, the plane was full, bags were stowed, and seatbelts were clicked. The flight: a four-hour and twenty-minute zip from El Salvador to New York. The vacation was nice (seriously, El Salvador is beautiful), but I needed to get back to my bed and a climate that wasn’t Hades hot. The final passenger, an older Afro-Latino man with khakis, a green windbreaker, and a veteran cap made his way down the aisle. His pace was slow but not glacial. He was careful not to make a false step or catch his foot on a loose bag strap. He said “I’m coming” to his wife who was seated just a few feet behind me and for a moment, I thought about my spouse seated to my right. That’ll be us. The thought crosses my mind whenever I see older couples still plugging along; taking trips, and truly living life together. We’re in our 30s, so hopefully, we have some time to get there. For now, I’m trying to enjoy the ride, embracing the happy moments and bumps along the way. But, that shit is hard.
Daydream over. Cue the tears.
A crying baby on a packed flight is a cliché, yet all too common. But this wasn’t any cry. These were screams that could put any white woman in a horror movie to shame. The little girl wanted off the plane and wasn’t taking no for an answer. She cried until snot soaked her shirt…
