By Jeanne Marie Laskas
Sunday, April 2, 2006; W39
The woman in the seat in front of me wants to know if I think she should have another baby. She has a son, 2 1/2, who is currently snoozing. We're in the back of the plane. I moved here mid-flight, to the last row, because it was vacant and near the bathroom, and my 6-year-old daughter was threatening to throw up.
She didn't throw up. She says she's feeling better now. The plane has landed, and everyone is eager to deplane, and my kid sure looks green to me.
"If I have another child," the woman says to me, "I want it to be a girl. Is that a terrible thing to admit?"
"I guess it depends on who you're admitting it to," I say, jokingly. I'm not really sure why she's confiding in me this way. We started speaking only moments ago when we stood up and began the overhead compartment ritual. She apologized for her son's abhorrent behavior during the flight. I did not notice the son or the behavior, but I didn't tell her that. I was afraid it would have seemed like an insult. I suppose I could tell her about my daughter's unfolding nausea drama, and that that was the reason I didn't notice her son, but somehow the woman's story has become our focus.
"It's not that he's a bad kid," she's saying. "And it's not that I wouldn't do it all over again in a heartbeat --"
"Of course," I say. "Oh, I understand."
No, I don't. Why did I say that? This is just stranger-to-stranger banter. Anonymous. There is a line you're not supposed to cross, and somehow we've catapulted ourselves over it with this talk of a sibling for the bad-behavior boy. She noticed that I had two kids, one up there with Dad in 20A and the green one back here. She says she thinks my green daughter was far better behaved than her son, and somehow she got the notion that this had something to do with either gender or the fact of siblinghood. She wants a better-behaved kid. I understand that. What parent doesn't?
The point is, you're polite. A stranger starts talking to you, the two of you have a few things in common -- plus, you're squished here in the back of a plane -- you chat.
Even so, there's a line. Intimacy has no place in stranger-to-stranger banter. Or it shouldn't.
"Mommy, my stomachache moved into my throat," my daughter announces. Oh, dear. She's gonna blow. I just know it. I really need to get out of here in the worst way.
"She's so sweet," the woman says. "I would love to have a chance to do pigtails and all the girly things."
Uh-huh.
"So, mostly, I just think, 'Go for it!'" she says. "But we had so much trouble conceiving the first time. Did you ever take Lupron? I never had a weight problem until I had to take that."
The problem is, no one is moving. What's the holdup? My husband is up there motioning questions at me. Or maybe he's saying he'll meet me in baggage claim? The woman begins detailing her fertility treatments and her weight-loss efforts. She tells me I'm a good listener. I don't take it as a compliment. What happens when you turn into a stranger's shrink? How do you stop it? Do you tell her that your daughter is on the verge of throwing up? Frankly, I find that information too personal. Also, as a daughter who spent many days of my own youth battling motion sickness, I happen to know that hearing the words "Excuse me, but my daughter has to throw up" can bring about only one certain and horrible occurrence. (How is it that the power of words is so strong when it comes to reverse peristalsis?)
Change the subject. "It looks nice and sunny outside," I say, bending my knees and looking out the window. "Wow, those baggage handlers sure have a hard job --"
The woman smiles, looks around. She has a pleasant face, framed with dark curls and searching eyes. She asks me where I live, if I'm headed home. She asks me if I let my girls watch cartoons. We share some thoughts about SpongeBob. She shakes her head, looks at her snoozing son, wonders if maybe the cartoons are ruining him.
Then she looks at me. "Do you know how long it's been since I've had a conversation with an actual adult? Wow, thank you."
Now I get it. I remember that one so well. Any parent of any toddler knows that one. You get a moment to yourself, you search for any available grown-up to talk to, if only to confirm that you still exist. (I can recall some patient cashiers at Target who indulged my own babbling.) "Oh, I understand," I say, and this time I mean it. And so I let down my guard, smile and confide: "My poor daughter here gets motion sickness, and the plane ride sure gave her belly a whirl."
Oh, dear. Belly a whirl? I said "belly a whirl" in front of a child on the brink? My daughter yanks, pulls my arm hard, clutches her mouth with her hand. "Excuse me!" I shout, alerting everyone. It's over in no time, and people scatter as best they can. The woman with the still-snoozing son, to her credit, offers tissues.
Jeanne Marie Laskas's e-mail address is post@jmlaskas.com.