People frequently ask why I don’t bring Jon along when I travel.
First of all, I’m not a huge fan of airplanes or anything related to them. The entire process of flight, including airports and all that goes on inside them, irritates me, but that is only one reason why adding my son to the flying equation is not the best plan.
About five years ago I decided to take a summer trip to Maine to visit friends.
These friends are considered family in every way and are ‘adopted’ grandparents to our boys. Jon adores them so I decided to bring him along. It was the first time I’d flown alone with him in a long time.
By some miracle we arrived at the airport in plenty of time to get through security and to our gate. I checked our luggage and had a shoulder bag and a small backpack for myself and a larger one for Jon to carry on. I requested pre-board given Jon’s tendency to freeze up when jostled or rushed in a crowd.
The security line was a disaster. Jon’s methodical slowness held everyone up.
He didn’t want to take his shoes off and his pockets, which I had made certain were empty when leaving the house, were full of the random items he removed from his bag on the way to the airport; sticks, string, cards, small toys, metal objects that set off alarms and a whole pile of whatnots that are important only to him.
The more everyone tried to hurry him the more resistant he became and before long went into his classic, scowling ‘freeze’ mode, which interpreted means, “I’m upset, I’m not moving and you won’t make me.”
We were finally pulled out of line and an attempt was made to pat him down. My warnings to the TSA folks about his aversion to being touched fell on deaf ears.
After a full thirty minutes or more of this frustration, it was finally determined Jon was not a terrorist, just a grumpy dude. He was waned, got his shoes back on, retrieved his precious, miscellaneous trinkets that had been scrutinized like terrorist tools and we were on our way to the gate.
Very slo..o..o..o..w..ly of course.
We stopped at the food court to purchase a meal and drink. There had been no time for breakfast before leaving the house and food would help keep Jon preoccupied during the flight.
Much time had already been used up getting through security so I hurried Jon as best I could, at turtle speed, toward the gate.
I could see the gate on the horizon. We were almost there! Relief flooded through me.
Suddenly Jon dropped his backpack at my feet and shuffled to the right, disappearing into the men’s restroom.
With a sigh and my foot, I slid his backpack to the wall. Saddled with all the carry-ons and a bag full of McDonalds including an oversized, wilting drink cup, I leaned against the wall to wait.
I waited…checked the time and waited…checked the time again and waited.
Twenty minutes had gone by! Then thirty!
I asked several men going in the restroom to check on him for me and “Please tell him to hurry up.”
Each one came back out to report that Jon’s feet were still visible under the locked stall door and my request had been rewarded with silence.
More time passed and I was getting antsy, downright anxious, when I heard the call for our plane to commence boarding.
Oh no!
We were NOT going to miss this plane!
Leaving our bags unattended, I walked to the entrance of the men’s room and yelled,
“Zip it up guys, I’m coming in. Gotta’ get my son outa’ here before we miss our flight!”
I proceeded into the restroom at tornado speed past a wall full of startled males and as I breezed by, keeping my eyes glued to Jon’s feet beneath the handicap stall door, announced,
“Sorry guys, got a husband and two sons, including this one I have to get out of here. Ain’t nothing in here I haven’t seen before.”
I banged on the stall door.
“Jon the plane is boarding. You have to come NOW!”
No answer. His feet moved to the back of the stall.
“Jon we are going to miss this plane if you don’t come out RIGHT NOW.”
My voice was rising in exponential decibels along with my blood pressure.
Silence.
The door remained locked.
Down I went on all fours and crawled underneath, while the few men who hadn’t fled the room, gawked at the spectacle like one would watch a car wreck.
I unlocked the stall door and grabbed Jon by the collar. He flailed and stomped trying to get away from me as I moved to his rear and booted his behind with my knee, then steered him out to where I’d left the carry-on bags.
Remarkably everything was right where I’d left it.
Jon was too upset to help me carry anything and I was too riled up to care. I threw all the bags over my shoulders, grabbed his lunch and drink and herded him like a runaway sheep to the waiting plane.
By the time I got Jon settled into his seat and collapsed into mine, he was madder than a cornered hornet and I was near tears and so drained the only place I wanted to go was home.
Two weeks later, following more crazy Jon scenarios that took place during our visit, the return flight was only slightly less stressful.
I wanted so much for Jon and I to have great time together on that trip but came home exhausted and told Mike I was never traveling alone with Jon again.
And I haven’t.
What was I thinking?
It stands to reason that a guy who takes four hours to eat two slices of pizza might have a hard time adhering to an airline’s schedule.
In matters of sanity, I can’t allow my heart to win out over reason.
As much as I love spending time with my son, I’ve figured out some activities just aren’t worth the extra stress and tension they create.
Traveling is one of them.
Once we left there, he walked the entire hallway that perimeters the sanctuary until we were back where we started. He only slightly nodded his head at one person we met along the way, even though many acknowledged him.
