A few weeks ago a friend and I discussed parenthood and opinions. Mostly the opinions of people who have not yet experienced parenthood. We represented both sides: she has two kids, I have none. But I could sympathize. Sure, it’s easy to set up high ideals when you aren’t in the situation yourself.
I do that, too. After settling into my seat for my recent flight to
Omaha, I was less than excited to hear a small child from the row behind me. Fortunately, he wasn’t crying, and he spent only about half the time whining. I sat waiting for the plane to take off and hearing the conversation between the child and his mother, with the father occasionally contributing from the across the aisle. Oh, I lamented, the mother’s letting the child be the boss. Where is the discipline? What will this next generation of child tyrants come to? And then I remembered the conversation with my friend. I smiled to myself and resolved to put an end to my critical thoughts. At least, for the most part.
I focused my attention on looking out the window. I felt disgruntled at getting stuck in a window seat, but the flight was full and I had no options. My leg muscles shivered and crawled in anticipation of the coming ordeal. I fully expected to spend the entire flight thinking I needed to use the restroom, since that usually happens to me whenever I feel I can’t get there easily.
How different, I realized, from my first flight. Sitting by the window had been more than a treat—it had offered a portal into superhero powers, because my soul seemed to pour out through the glass and expand across the horizon, with only the lightest tether to the aircraft, almost as if I were flying on my own with my superhero cape flowing out around me. Every view had seemed so amazing and wonderful. I had watched the early morning sun grow stronger, I had seen the shadow of the plane pass across a puff of clouds that looked like white cotton candy. I had gazed out across vast fields of farmland, and then the blue uniformity of the ocean reminded me of the vinyl tablecloth at my grandma’s Thanksgiving dinner.
I saw farmland on this recent trip, too. It seemed a familiar view at first, because I’ve flown over it many times now, I’ve studied the geometric shapes of fields and there’s nothing left to discover. Or so I thought. Suddenly, gazing down again at it again, it struck me anew as amazing and wonderful. So much land that my eyes would pass over without seeing, that my mind would dismiss as “empty”—all this land is actually cared for, planned, laid out with hard work and attention. The lines, shapes, patterns crisscrossing beneath me all testified of human labor. And the creation was beautiful, like art. I could make out lines I thought were irrigation ditches, running in spokes and swirls. Although they were not there for my joy and amusement, they called to mind an artist with a paintbrush, a hand gliding deftly across a vision on canvas to add complexity and a hint of whimsy. The whole beautiful scene might have been meant for me and me alone, the way it penetrated beyond my vague annoyance to touch me in a place that was real and deep.
And there was that child again, asking questions, saying something about a dog. The plane had a dog, he insisted. I thought he meant the whirring of the engines sounded like a dog growling. He wanted to know about everything. Why this, why that? His parents managed to answer sometimes, but often he was on to the next question before they could really formulate a reply.
He had made up his own mind about the dog, anyway.
Later, after we had all survived the flight and made it off the plane, I was walking through the airport when I noticed the aircraft through a window. I realized that the Frontier Airlines planes display a picture of some kind of animal. I had been able to see the picture from my seat when we were parked at the departure gate and after we landed, and I bet that little boy had seen it, too. One thing I could say for sure, the animal in the picture wasn’t a dog. But what it was … that I couldn’t answer so confidently. Some kind of mammal from the Frontier. Uh, huh, yeah. I remembered hearing the mother in the seat behind me mention a bunny. I imagined myself with my own child. “What is that?” The child would want to know. “Well, dear, that’s some kind of mammal from the frontier.”
To my friend’s point during our discussion a few weeks ago … I am really in no position to criticize a parent.
