The Road to Santa Barbara: Breastfeeding a wild animal on an airplane.

The Road to Santa Barbara

No, don’t worry. This isn’t another 220-page story about our misfortunes in the state of California. This time, we’re just visiting. We’re flying to Sacramento to visit Jeff’s Dad, then driving down to Santa Barbara on Friday for a wedding on Saturday. So, this morning we packed up our two mammoth suitcases, car seat, stroller, and two carry-on bags and toted the Dutcher to the airport via the Bill Zyp shuttle. We marveled at the fact that if the two of us had been traveling alone, like we used to do, we would have needed ¼ of what we were currently taking. For such a small person, Dutch sure requires a lot of stuff!
Thankfully, airline personnel are used to people like us, and they smile knowingly as we lug our suitcases and push the stroller, still managing to feed Cheerios to a wide-eyed ten-month-old waving his hands in the air. They are wonderful to us. Even the security people were friendly, smiling and asking how our day was and poking Dutch’s cheeks. Jeff observed wisely, “People are nicer to us than they used to be.” It’s Dutch.
Dutch is the reason for a lot of things. He’s the reason my parents are really sad about us leaving for five days – that’s it, five days. Yeah, they are spoiled getting to have their grandson live with them. I don’t think they’ve ever been sad when Jeff and I have gone on vacation before . . . but they’re sad now. Dutch is also the reason why Grandpa Patterson is jumping out of his skin with excitement that we’re here. There’s an old keyboard on the floor, just for Dutch (who loves to type on keyboards; thanks Grandma Betsy!), there are containers of applesauce in the fridge. There are toys just waiting to be scattered across the floor. Yes, Grandpa Patterson is ready for Dutch.
I will say this: After we’d had the wonderful passage through cheerful security guards, and I’d gotten my Grande Decaf Caramel Macchiato, Dutch was swinging his feet cheerfully in the stroller and I was feeling good about the traveling thing. Yeah, we really had it all together. So, I told Jeff, “Before Dutch is two (when kids have to actually buy a ticket and have their own seas), we need to take a lot of trips—visit the Seifers, your brother and Brenda, and Kris and Nikki. It’s so great traveling with Dutch we need to take advantage of it before we have to pay for him.” How blissfully ignorant I was.
Thirty minutes later, we were stuffed into the impossibly tiny seats of Southwest Airlines, and it had to be one-hundred-and-twenty degrees. Dutch was sweating and as soon as we started to take off, he was wailing. Right across the aisle sat another little girl, Dutch’s age, sitting absolutely silently on her mommy’s lap, playing with her own fingers. I could not believe it. I could see her, as we ascended, slowly start to drift asleep, where she leaned into her mommy’s chest and nodded off without a peep. Ah! At the same time, Dutch had turned into a wild animal, and was thrashing around, arching his chest and wailing, hitting his head against the back of the seat in front of us.
So, I figured I’d try to nurse him, to keep him quiet. Imagine trying to modestly breast feed a tiger, tightly surrounded by businessmen and other complete strangers. Jeff reached into my diaper bag to get get my “hooter hider” (my indispensable fabric nursing cover), and started laughing when he saw that I’d actually brought a book in my carry-on. “I know. I know. What was I thinking?” He smiled, then tried to help me put on the nursing cover, pulling it over my face so all my hair fell over my eyes, then tried to get it over Dutch while he’s yanking it away. I’m sure half the plane saw much more than I care to think about, and every minute or so Dutch would pull off and cry, pulling off the cover and arching his back, thrashing around. This was ten minutes into the flight and I finally just closed my eyes and started pleading with God to help this child to settle down.
And, of course, he did. He never necessarily was calm, but at least he was happy. A steady stream of Cheerios kept him busy, then straw-fulls of diluted apple juice, then once we were at cruising altitude, he happily walked along the aisle, holding onto the arm rests, making new friends in every row. Thankfully, no one scowled at us, and everyone said he was cute, so apparently the whole scene in the beginning of the flight wasn’t as horrific as I’d felt it was.
As we disembarked in Sacramento, I felt like the flight lasted a week. The truth? It was only a 1-hour flight! As Jeff unfolded the stroller, I kissed my precious boy who was smiling and completely oblivious to my grief. Man, I love him. His smile, the way his little upper lip sticks out, the way he bats his hands and claps and sticks out his tongue—it was worth every second.
However, I amended my previous statement: “Honey, I take back what I said: Let’s wait until Dutch is two and we can strap him into his own seat . . . preferable at the opposite end of the plane from us.”

~Stay tuned for more adventures from sunny California. . .