Blog 7: Please Don’t Cry (But It’s Okay If You Do)
Flight: Qatar Airways QR707 | Route: Doha (DOH) to Washington, DC (IAD) | Aircraft: Boeing 777-300ER | Seat: 26C, Economy Aisle
I wasn’t expecting to cry during takeoff.
But as the plane lifted from the runway and Doha disappeared into the sand-colored haze, I felt something loosen in my chest—equal parts exhaustion, relief, and fear—and my eyes welled up.
Of course, I didn’t cry. Not really. Just a blink-too-long moment with my head turned slightly toward the aisle, away from my son.
He didn’t notice. He was too busy kicking his legs and asking if we were “up high now.”
We were.
Thirty-six thousand feet high. Thirteen hours to go. Just me and my two-year-old son on Qatar Airways Flight 707, bound for IAD.
This wasn’t meant to be a solo flight. My husband couldn’t come—work, visas, timing. So I said, “It’s fine. I’ve got this. He’s easy on planes.”
Which is mostly true. He is easy. Easier than most.
He’s sweet, curious, surprisingly chill for a toddler. He likes the little airplane meal trays and watching trucks on the runway. He can be reasoned with (most of the time), and if I’m lucky, he’ll nap somewhere over the Atlantic.
But still. It’s me who has to:
- Hold him in line through security while he pretends my passport is a steering wheel.
- Drag the carry-on, diaper bag, and one-legged stuffed tiger he refuses to leave behind.
- Change him in a tiny airplane bathroom where the changing table feels designed for a hamster.
- Apologize, in three languages, when he kicks the seat in front of him (accidentally) for the fifth time.
There’s no co-parent to trade shifts with. No hand-off while I sip coffee and breathe.
Just me. All the way.
He falls asleep after meal service, slumped against my side, his small hand still gripping one of my fingers.
His face relaxes completely, lashes resting on flushed cheeks, breath soft and steady. He smells like baby shampoo and apple juice.
For the first time since we boarded, I lean back in my seat. My shoulder is stiff. My back aches. My arm is slowly going numb under his weight.
But I don’t move.
I watch the screen on the seat in front of me—one of those looping flight maps with glowing arcs over oceans. We’re somewhere above Turkey now. Still hours to go.
I scroll past the movies. Nothing I have the energy to follow.
Instead, I let my thoughts drift.
It’s been almost two years since we last saw my parents in DC.
They haven’t seen him since he started walking. Since he started speaking in full sentences. Since he began asking questions like, “Was I always your little boy?”
My mother cried on the phone when I told her we’d be coming. She kept saying, “I don’t want him to grow up without me knowing him.”
So here we are.
Halfway between the lives we’ve built and the roots we came from.
I see myself—years ago—sitting in 26C on a similar flight. No baby, no tiger, no half-eaten crackers stuck to my jeans. Just a backpack, a sleep mask, and endless time to watch movies and daydream.
Back then, I used to eye parents like me with quiet pity. How hard that must be, I thought. How exhausting.
And now?
Now I’m the one pacing the aisle with a small hand in mine. The one with sippy cups, sticker books, and a purse filled with emergency raisins.
And somehow, I wouldn’t trade it.
Even when I haven’t slept in 20 hours.
Even when he licked the tray table for reasons only he understands.
Even when I have to whisper “It’s okay” to myself more times than I whisper it to him.
A woman in the window seat next to us gives me a gentle nod when I reach for the blanket.
“First time?” she asks, quietly.
“No,” I say. “Just first time alone.”
She smiles. “You’re doing great.”
I don’t believe it right away. But I tuck her words in my mind anyway, like a little souvenir.
Hours later, somewhere over Newfoundland, he wakes up, rubbing his eyes.
“I dreamed we were in Grandma’s garden,” he says sleepily. “She had strawberries.”
“We’ll see her soon,” I whisper. “You can tell her about it.”
He grins, then suddenly yells, “I have to pee!”
We both scramble up, knocking a water cup over. He laughs. I laugh too. Because, really, what else is there to do?
We land in D.C. just before sunset. The light slants across the terminal windows, golden and forgiving.
He runs ahead with his little backpack bouncing, shouting “Grandmaaaa!” the moment he sees her through the glass.
My mom starts crying again. This time, I do too.
And later, when he’s asleep in his old crib at my parents’ house, I sit on the edge of the guest bed and finally exhale.
I’m still tired. Still sore. Still a little overwhelmed.
But I’m also grateful.
For the seat on that plane.
For the quiet nod from a stranger.
For a child who is both work and wonder.
And for the journey—messy, beautiful, and mine.
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