Taking One for the Team 

by Christa Hines 

Not long ago, my sons Nolan, age four, and Drew, age two, and I joined my mother, a.k.a. Omi, for a much anticipated beach vacation. We played in sun-soaked white sand and surf, searched for seashells, and watched hermit crabs skitter across the sand at sunset. But as any parent traveling with young children can attest, every vacation comes with a price. We do not always know when the troll will collect his fee, but we all know it is coming. For me, my vacation of seaside bliss officially ended about the time we stepped into the airport on a drizzly, humid morning, and reality in the form of my tired toddler slapped me in the face. 

Long, solemn lines curled around the airport due to heightened security. Drew, who usually cannot wait to ditch his socks and shoes, chose this particular day to fight the system. With my ears ringing from his hysterical screams, I quickly ripped his blue and white running shoes off his chubby feet and threw them in the grey plastic bin. I felt eyes boring into me as we pressed through the line. 

Through security and with shoes thankfully back on our feet I should have felt relief. Instead an anxious knot formed in my stomach and a trickle of sweat slid down my back. The scarf I wrapped so carefully around my neck that morning seemed to constrict my throat like a colorful snake as warning bells rang in my head. Instinctively I knew that Drew’s tantrum a few moments before was simply the wind whipping up before the storm. I would soon be trapped inside an airborne metal tube within an arm’s length of a three-foot vessel of crackling thunder and lightning. 

Once on the small commuter plane, I handed Drew his blanket in a vain attempt to encourage a nap. The loud roaring of the engines hummed throughout the plane as we climbed higher and higher into the sky. Our fellow passengers sat quietly looking out the window or lightly snoozing. Nolan said, “Bye-bye, Florida,” as the plane soared high into the clouds. 

About halfway through the flight, Drew made it clear that he felt the same about wearing his seatbelt as he did about removing his shoes for security. “You can take off the seatbelt when we land,” I patiently explained. “Watch the seatbelt light, and when it goes off, we can take our seatbelts off.” He screamed in protest, pushing and pulling at the buckle. 

Many of the parenting books suggest the diversion tactic to end a tantrum. He accepted none of my offers for his coloring book, a snack, a movie, a storybook, or his favorite stuffed animal. In desperation I hugged and kissed him to try to comfort and quiet him. His angry screams only intensified. I wanted to crawl under my seat. 

With no escape available, I did the only thing I could think of to do: I pretended I didn’t know him. I leaned away from him, looked out the window across the aisle and ignored the howling child seated next to me. Within minutes, the tantrum subsided to a few choked sobs. I stole a sidelong glance. With a crocodile tear glistening on his cheek, Drew paged quietly through an airline magazine like a miniature business commuter. 

One mom I know describes dealing with a public temper tantrum as “taking one for the team,” like when a football player takes a painful tackle so the rest of the team can complete a play. We all at some point are forced into the spotlight of a public temper tantrum starring one of our children. But as lonely as it feels when people stare at us and our misbehaving kids, we have to remember that we are not alone. It is just our turn to take a hit for the team. We are on the same side as we negotiate with toddlerhood and every other difficult phase our children go through as they grow into adults. Next time I see a mom “taking one for the team,” I’ll smile at her in understanding and quietly thank the heavens—and her—that, at least this time, it isn’t my turn. 

My few hours of humiliation were definitely worth the vacation. My kids still talk about their trip to the beach. I suppose vacations are sometimes like childbirth; the happy memories quickly push aside the more painful moments. Then off you go planning the next one. 

Christa Hines is a freelance writer living in the midwest with her husband and two children (and no plans for more).