Candland has flown on a two-hour flight. This was back in the potato era, before he could walk. I was still breastfeeding, which I did through take-off and landing. On the way to Washington state, a mother of four sat next to us and let Candland play with her glasses (at her own risk). On the way home, we sat next to a woman who spoke of her grandchildren and held the essence of “Nana” in the way she sat cozily by the window.
The flights were easy.
Now, we have a small pocket in our lives where the stars just might be aligning. David just finished all of his classes, graduating this winter. (He will officially walk in the summer!) Candland is still younger than two when plane tickets are free or discounted if we sit him on our lap. I just completed the biggest product launch of the year last month.
There couldn’t be a better time to fly to Europe as a family.
But our son is almost two years old. He is more active than I could have imagined. He doesn’t like being held. He doesn’t like being still. He likes walk-running, and touching everything in sight. In short, I cannot imagine him on a flight longer than 2 hours…
Actually, I can.
I can see it now. My back, already sore from carrying too much luggage before I even sit down for the flight. Candland, refusing to stay still when we get ready for take off and then crying because of the cabin pressure and the inability to pop his ears. David, tired from the strenuous walk through the airport (the distances that need to be walked in the SLC airport are ridiculous) and helping, but also dealing with his own pain in his leg. At a certain point Candland will start to spin his body like an alligator with prey. He will wrestle with his surprisingly strong limbs and torso while shrieking, passengers will raise their eyebrows unapologetically. I’ll notice a woman with a large nose is trying to make eye contact with me so she can find an opportunity to tell me I need to calm my child down. At this point, I will tell myself there’s only a little longer. But I will look at the clock on my phone and see there’s still 9 hours left.
In this all too real hypothetical, I despairingly wonder, What have we done?
But then another memory—not hypothetical— a real memory jolts my brain (which is already exhausted just imagining Candland’s round trip). Two surgeries in and a week in the hospital, David was at war with the pain in his leg. He was on as many drugs as allowed, and still the pain in his leg made it so that his hands were tight, white fists. When he wasn’t moaning in agony on his hospital bed, he was clenching his teeth. And when I asked the nurse to give him more drugs, she let me know that she couldn’t. He was at his max.
“What can I do to help?” I asked David as he squeezed my hand. My other arm was cradling our four-month-old son who had already grown accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of his father’s grunts.
“Tell me about our honeymoon.” He breathed. His eyes were sealed shut.
“Well,” I started. “There was that time—do you remember?—the cops showed up at our hotel in Florence? They thought you were someone else, but the front desk had just entered your passport number incorrectly? That was crazy! And then the train we took to Venice. They gave us that huge bag of snacks, and we got to look out the window. At one point we were totally surrounded by water. Or the opera we saw, with the champagne? Oh man. And the Acropolis? Remember how it was all lit up at night? But the dinner took so damn long. We waited like three hours for our soups to arrive!”
I started to laugh.
“I’m so glad we went,” David said. He smiled for a moment and then bit down in pain again.
“Me too.”
At the time, we didn’t really know if another trip was in our future. We didn’t really know anything beyond the three of us in that hospital room.
Perhaps the plane ride with a two year old will be hell. The flights and hotel and everything else will be expensive. Noticeably so. And God knows it will be exhausting, and we will be aching for our home upon our return. But we need more memories to add to the memory bank. We need experiences that we can call upon when we find ourselves in pain, in loss, in darkness. Those memories are stronger than fentanyl, morphine, or oxycodone. They don't just take the pain away. They heal.
I want to take my family on a trip this year. I want to look back and think fondly, Look at what we’ve done!
I had similar trepidation going into our recent fights with Maia. No matter how hellish they may end up being, they'll also end. I think it's well worth it to make the memories.