The Tigress Within

It is a wondrous force of nature and it awes me: the lengths that mothers will go to protect the interests and happiness of their children, often to the detriment of their own comfort. Even me; despite my tendency to be uber-attentive to my own needs over those of others, I am no exception to the rule when it comes to my child.

Having recently completed a harrowing airplane journey half-way around the world with my partner and 19-month old son, I had ample opportunity to discover precisely what measure of discomfort I would shoulder in order to relieve that of my child’s.

The suffering began after the first leg of our four-flight itinerary was sufficiently delayed to cause complications which led to us being denied the ability to board the heinous 13-hour overseas leg of our trip. We were supposed to board that flight right at Bode’s naptime, which we figured would be OK given that the lowered air pressure combined with the motion of the plane would be likely to provide the right environment to help him nod off and get our trip off to the right start for everyone.

But instead of this halcyon fantasy, we found ourselves wrangling with the Qantas staff in Sydney for nearly three hours – in tears, all of us – arguing over who was at fault and who was going to pay for our food, accommodation, rebooking fees and overall suffering. To cut the longest of stories short, Qantas came through in the end and agreed to find us a suitable hotel, feed us, rebook our flights, and even buy us nappies and new underwear. But the damage to our sanity had only just begun.

Bode missed his nap that day for the first time in his life, and to put it lightly, it stressed me out. Since his birth I have placed a top priority on maintaining his regular sleeping times - responding to what he needs, when he needs it – and forgoing all other commitments in order to protect his precious sleep routine. As a result of this, we have been rewarded with a very happy child who has always slept well, giving the whole family a guaranteed recharge each night. On this occasion I had absolutely no control over the day, and in my failure to provide my son what he needed, I became fraught with anxiety at having our whole trip turned upside down.

Bode of course handled the situation just fine, but as it turned out this hiccup was only just the beginning. On the 13-hour mammoth haul to LA, Bode slept 3 hours total. This means that when the exhausted parents should have been resting ourselves, we were busy pulling out every trick and treat in the nappy bag to keep Bode entertained and sufficiently quiet so as not to disturb the other passengers (a VERY tall order!). When Bode finally did fall asleep for his 2-hour nighttime stint, I was far too keyed up to relax and still had an arm’s-length list of chores to finish such as washing out his milk cup and food bowls in the airplane sink (yuk), gathering up all the crayons, books and stickers that were strewn everywhere around us, brushing my own teeth and closing my eyes for just a few minutes even if sleep eluded me.

Then came the two hopelessly lost bags in LA, the seven-hour layover there, the following 3-hour flight, the last 2-hour layover and at long last, we headed off to board our final flight, 53 hours after our trip began. “Unfortunately,” the gate agent said, “You are not confirmed on this flight. You are only on standby as it’s grossly oversold. But don’t worry, only 12 people have to give up their seats and then we’ll get you on.” Bode must have sensed my complete despair, because he clung to me like a koala and burst into tears. And so did I. But I wasn’t crying for my own discomfort, despite the fact that I had slept only six restless hours in the past two days and spent the other 50 hours giving everything of myself to keep my son happy. No, I was crying for Bode, because I knew that there was not much more that this little person could take, and what right did we have to even ask it of him? For over two days, he had grabbed an hour of sleep here and there, as much as he could in between being dragged onto flights and through airports and in and out of our arms.

Each time he awoke he was as chirpy and cheeky as he could possibly be, touching me deeply with his ability to stay positive and happy right through the ordeal. I ached to do more for him, but I was already doing everything possible and still felt as though I was letting him down.

In the end, we did get on that flight, and Bode passed out face down in our laps for the final 50 minute journey. This time when I picked him up to get off the plane, he didn’t even stir – not even when we lugged ourselves through the -10 degree cold. When he did wake up inside that final airport, he looked into my mom’s gentle face, smiled his sleepy eyes and said “Nana.” He giggled all the way home in the car, took a warm bath then slept for 13 hours straight. I hit the scotch and did the same.

At the time, I didn’t think I could have coped with one more hiccup or one more hour travelling, because it would have torn me up watching what it would have done to Bode. But looking back, I know that if things had gotten even worse on that trip from hell, I would have simply dug deeper and found a way to get myself and the rest of us through it. Because that’s what mothers do.