“Excuse me, pardon me, so sorry,” I say clearly and loudly — far from my normal apologetic mumble. I hate creating a stir, yet here I am, parting the Red Sea of passengers. I am now totally sweaty, as my perfect outfit I wore did not account for the 90-degree heat outside nor frantic race inside carrying all things baby. Thankfully, the ticket agents were nice, and once again, I was thankful I was visiting the pleasant South where strangers generally are a bit more courteous than I am used to. With everything now officially taken care of, I part the sea yet again to make my way to the back of the line, then on to the back of the plane.
As soon as I get seated, I must make room for a svelte young man with blond hair and easy smile. I mentally crossed my fingers and hope he is as nice as everyone else I’ve encountered. As I fidget with my bag, loading toys and snacks for me in the pouch in the seat in front, feeling significantly less confident that I should write a blog about how to travel with an infant, a darling middle-aged flight attendant stands hesitatingly in the aisle next to me.
“Excuse me ma’am?” She taps on my shoulder.
And with that, my mind races. What have I forgotten? What did we do wrong? Am I losing my seat? Is someone complaining already? . . . My mind immediately throttles to hyper-drive. I don’t show it. I return her smile. She continues . . .
“There’s this guy in the front of the plane. He said he wanted to switch seats with the lady with the baby. And I think you’re the lady with the baby. Would you like to sit in first class?”
As I sat there a bit stunned, my fellow passengers began their own cheering session for me: “Yes, girl, you get that seat!” “Way to go!” “YES!” “Enjoy that first-class seat!”
As I follow the flight attendant to the front of the plane, I pass a trim older gentleman with a big smile and kind eyes. “What seat am I in?” he asks. “21 D,” I reply (thinking to myself, “at the very back of the plane! I’m so sorry!”) After as many thanks as I can squeeze in, I sit down to a cushy wide seat, with enough room in front for both my bags and my legs. I somewhat sheepishly look around, hoping that no one is upset that they are now travelling with a baby in first class, where they presumably paid extra to get away from it all. Suddenly, another middle age man sitting directly in front of me swings around . . .
“Isn’t Pat the nicest? We work together at Huggies. He’s the lead designer on the diapers. At Huggies . . . we just LOVE babies. Hey . . . have you ever tried those teething tablets? We used those with my kids . . .”
And right then and there, I knew I was now a Huggies mom. Not because the diapers are better. (I’m sure they’re great.) But because a company who professes to love babies ACTUALLY hires people who LOVE babies. So much so that they’ll go sit on the back of the plane, where no drinks were served, so I could travel more comfortably with my poopy little squish in THEIR first-class seat.