“Since this is so awful, everything after this will feel easy . . . Right?”
I recently took a plane trip alone with Graham and KyrahAnne. Wrestling a 2-year-old and an 11-month-old on an airplane is not, I discovered, for the faint of heart. We survived the trip down, complete with several absolute meltdowns on both flights, but I would soon find out it was nothing compared to the trip back.
At 1 a.m. on Monday morning, I woke up to the sound of Graham vomiting next to my head. Our flight home was scheduled for 11 a.m.
For the next 10 hours, Graham consistently threw up every 30 minutes. By the time we got to the airport, he was pale and unsteady. He laid on the floor anytime we stopped moving: in security, in the public airport bathroom, and at the gate. As soon as we got on the plane, he put his head on my lap and went to sleep.
The peace lasted for about half the flight—after that, Graham threw up about every 10 minutes until we arrived at our gate.
I walked through the airport, with my shirt and pants soaked in vomit, surrounded by the distinct aroma of stomach bile, wishing I didn’t have to make the 3-hour drive from the airport. My wish did not come true.
But somehow we made it home, and Graham recovered eventually from the stomach flu, and today it’s all just a happy memory. Well. It’s a memory.
Here’s the important part.
The guy sitting next to me was on the higher end of his 60s, and every time Graham threw up, I apologized profusely, to which he responded,
“Oh, it’s okay. Your kids are really good, and your son is a trooper.”
And every time, I started to cry. Because I was exhausted, and embarrassed, and filthy, and he acted like it was his privilege to sit next to us. He was unbelievably kind and gracious.
Be that guy.
