This week we’re flying to the boondocks of Michigan. The whole family.
Lord, help us.
The last time Rhema flew it was just the two of us. Brandon was in Iraq, and Hope was staying with my mother. Thinking about that trip still gives me heart palpitations…
(Originally published in September 2010)
How cool moms like Angelina, Heidi and Victoria do it. I look EXACTLY like this when I travel:
Rhema is not fearful of new situations like some kids on the spectrum. She doesn’t always know where she’s going or why she’s going, she just knows that she must! get! there! So it was at the airport. Me, with the luggage in one hand while holding on to Rhema for dear life as she sprinted up and down the escalators. Escalators are on her obsession list and Logan Airport was paradise; she was bent on riding every single one.
My brother-in-law Joel went with us as far as he could – to the security check point. The poor man (so dear to me) looked like he was dropping us off at the edge of Hades. I gave him a quick, brave smile and nodded goodbye. I had our boarding passes out, but my ID was in my wallet in my purse in a pouch in the backpack on my back. I could slide said backpack off my back onto the floor and even stoop down while holding the carry-on suitcase and the carseat and Rhema-trying-to-escape all with my pinky finger. But to open said backpack and fish out my purse and then my wallet and then my ID… well, that would take two hands.
At which point Rhema broke free and took off running like she was late for a popsicle handout. She slammed into a metal signpost and cut her ear, but she barely slowed down. I had to leave all of our stuff in the line, run and catch her and bring her back. She got away from me twice.
Try as I might, I could not manage to get my shoes off, her shoes off, the laptop out of the backpack and into one of those trays, and the carseat and the carry-on luggage onto the belt and get us both through security. I’d told one of the security dudes that Rhema had autism, but no one was helping us.
Then Joel was at my side.
“I got a pass. I can go with you to the gate.” Oh thank you, BRO!
By the time we got to the gate I had to check the suitcase and the carseat. I had wanted to avoid going through baggage claim (for obvious reasons), but there was no way I could handle it all. I should have known, should have planned better. But I just thought/hoped that she would be calmer this time (she’s flown before).
On the plane our struggles continued. It was a ‘full flight’, and Rhema kicked the living daylights out of the seat in front of her. She slid the window shade up and down, up and down… and then the tray table in front of her, up and down, up and down. The entire flight. (When the flight attendant calmly explained to her that all tray tables and seatbacks had to be stowed in their upright and locked positions for takeoff and landing, Rhema was unmoved.)
For good measure, she dumped her apple juice in my lap.
As the plane descended I wondered which was a more frightening prospect: the plane blowing up or Rhema and I trying to get through baggage claim.
Of course we couldn’t stand there and wait for our luggage like “normal people.” Of course we had to run up and down escalators, during which Rhema scraped the back of her leg. Of course we were the last two souls at the baggage claim area late at night with no suitcase or carseat in sight. Rhema was at the end of her rope, and I could not make her be still or sit down. She fought me. She kicked me. She pushed me.
I had to go potty, I was famished, I was weary in body and spirit. And then she got up and ran toward a group of soldiers. She had been running all afternoon, not seeming to see anything or anyone around her. But she saw soldiers in desert fatigues and ran to them. Is she looking for her Daddy? Is that what she thinks this is all about? I will not cry, I will not cry.
After we finally found our luggage, we went to the restroom. Now normally I never go to the bathroom (myself) when Rhema’s with me. Too risky. But this time I couldn’t hold it. So while I sat on the germ-infested potty-chair, I held Rhema’s hand and begged her to ‘stay with me.’ But my darling child managed to undo the lock on the stall door. The door bust open, and she bolted like a skittish pony… with me in mid-stream. Now, I ask you, what’s a girl to do? This girl kicked the door shut, finished her business and hoped for the best.
Thankfully, I found her drinking soapy water out of the sink.
I won’t bother to mention all of the gory details. Like the fact that we had to wait 20 minutes for the shuttle bus for the rental car to come. (Rhema has a waiting ABA program at school – she’s up to a whopping 3 seconds. Do you know how many seconds are in 20 minutes?). Or that I tried to feed her some rice while we waited outside for the shuttle… and she spilled it… and tried to eat pieces of rice off the pavement like she was starving… and burst into tears when I stopped her. Or how one of the businessmen observed that she was ‘quite a handful.’ Or that she tried to climb into the shuttle bus driver’s lap while he was driving.
When we finally stumbled into our hotel room at 11 pm, I had a message from my husband that simply said Ps. 34: 17-18.
“The righteous cry out, and the LORD hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles.
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
It was late, but I pulled up Kari Jobe’s My Beloved on the iPod, gathered my girl in my arms.
And we danced.
Now the time has come to do it all again.
And I say as so many before me have said: Cover me, people. I’m going in.