You know those parents that talk to their kids in a voice that kind of sounds like a cross between a kindergarten teacher that’s on a speedy hit of ecstasy and a grandparent trying to communicate with a mentally disabled foreigner? It’s like their voice is really loud but also really nice? And their kid kind of ignores them and it only makes them talk louder? I’ve totally been guilty of that. But more often I end up talking to my kids like they’re the hyper freshman at a kegger and I’m the cool weed dealer who’s just, like, hacky sacking in the corner.
“Dude, Wilder, chill, man.”
“Nakota, you gotta not be so hard on yourself. You’re already totally killing it.”
Yes, I realize this is just as annoying. But what these two modalities have in common is that they’re just coping mechanisms parents use so we don’t explode into a time-bending black hole that sucks all of life-as-we-know-it into its giant void of nothingness.
Well, on the plane I was not the schoolteacher, the grandparent or the weed dealer. I was, along with my shell-shocked husband, the hostage, and I spoke to my children as though they had the full force of ISIS behind them.
“You want a third blueberry muffin Lara bar? That sounds like a great idea!”
“Yes, you can watch another hour of Peppa, just please don’t yell, okay? Please?”
“Of course I have another marker for you to make a single scribble with and then immediately drop on the floor, let’s keep the game going!”
But you have to draw the line somewhere, and for me (and the Federal Aviation Administration) that line was the seatbelt.
The problem with giving kids whatever they want is that they don’t remember all the stuff you did for them when you finally have to say no. Because they’re rude. And they’re two.
“Nakota, you have to put on your seatbelt.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know you don’t want to but you have to.”
“Why?”
“Because if the plane gets in an accident (shit, don’t make her scared) – because the pilot wants everyone to wear them and if he sees that you’re not (shit, why does it have to be a guy?) - if SHE sees that you’re not wearing them –”
“Who’s she?”
“The pilot.”
“Where is he?”
“No, SHE!”
“Who?”
“The pilot. The pilot is a girl (shit) woman! The pilot is a woman.”
“I want to see her.”
“Okay. Maybe later.” (The piéce de résistance of parental lies).
Before we left I asked Billy if we should dress the kids Cute or Comfortable for the plane ride, and no, not even toddlers can have it both ways, not on our budget anyway. At first glance comfortable might seem like the caring parents way to go, but cute is playing the long game, and when crossing the Atlantic with toddler twins the long game is the only game being played. Studies show that your chances of having the rest of the plane hate you when your kid is having a DEFCON 5 meltdown are drastically reduced when your daughter looks like a clownish fairy and your son, a harried yet lovable linguistics professor.
So pimp out our children we did, and all in all they were pretty damn awesome, even through what turned into a five-hour layover in Lisbon. Side note, look at the hottie specifying the women's restroom in Portugal:
And the kids even held it together through a rather lengthy interrogation by customs officers in Marrakesh. (I promise this will be the last picture I post of my children sleeping.)
But before we landed, as the plane descended through the fog to reveal a blanket of sandy pink buildings and palm trees still as statues, an involuntary smile shot onto my face. Thirteen years after a backpacking trip through the southern part of this incredible continent had fundamentally changed me, I have made it back to Africa. No matter what I haven't accomplished in life, out of all things I've tried that didn’t change a thing, I somehow, through luck and love and perhaps some blind stupidity have managed to make it back.
I can't wait to see what the kids think.
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