As a seasoned parent who's traveled extensively with young children, I can say unequivocally: I dread flying. Whether solo or with the family, it's the cramped seats, minuscule bathrooms, and interminable airport waits that get to me—not fear of flying itself.
Sometimes, a seatmate's strong personal scent, like lingering garlic, adds to the discomfort. No judgments, but it tests anyone's patience. The real ordeal, though, is flying with kids amid delays, subpar facilities, wailing toddlers, and mediocre airport fare. (Schiphol Airport being a welcome exception.)
Our family vacation in Portugal was idyllic—delicious food, warm hospitality, and two weeks of sunshine. But the return from Algarve Airport reminded me why flying with kids demands serious strategy.
'Two hours delay?'
I groaned, staring at the departure screen. This meant more time trapped in the tiny, sticky terminal. Eateries overflowed with frustrated travelers; seats were scarce. My husband trudged ahead irritably, the kids trailing with complaints: "Mommy, my legs hurt. I'm hungry. I want McDonald's. When do we fly?"
Yes, we all needed to sit. Flying with children is challenging enough—delays turn it into survival mode.
I nudged my husband. "There!" A table just freed up. Ignoring the stares, I navigated the sweaty crowd with my little one in tow, crumbs be damned. Two teens lingered dreamily; "Hurry, these chairs grow legs," I urged.
Finally seated: exhausted, irritable, ravenous. As we debated menu options—no McDonald's here—a stout woman loomed. "You need to order food to sit," she demanded sharply.
That was it. I muttered for her to mind her business and turned away, drawing shocked stares. Tensions simmered as we decided who'd fetch food, then my son knocked over his drink—onto the grimy table, no less. Full meltdown incoming.
To avoid tears in public, I stepped away, checking the board futilely. Patience frayed thin. Outbound waits feel rewarding; inbound? Laundry piles await—and suddenly, that sounds blissful.
-x-
Ievy
