Even on my eight-week-old’s potentially noisy first flight, fellow passengers thrill to the wonder of him
‘How old is he?’ asked the woman to my right as we took our seats on the plane. I don’t find flying too stressful but today was proving an exception. The worst I usually get is a little bit of Altitude-Adjusted Lachrymosity, a speculative condition in which some combination of cabin pressure or recycled air results in my becoming overly sentimental if I spend the flight watching movies about brave dogs.
As it was my son’s first flight, I was simply delighted we weren’t being offered a sock to gag him. I clarified his age and jiggled him on my lap, as if to suggest he was the kind of baby who never cried. ‘They’re so beautiful at that age,’ the woman said, clasping a hand to her chest, as if it held a letter from the dreamy American soldier who stole her heart.
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