This holiday season, if you'll be flying the friendly skies, I'll give you a little travel tip: do not be on Southwest flight 338 from Phoenix to St. Louis on Christmas Eve. That’s the flight my wife and I will be on, and we’re bringing our colicky baby, Carter, with us. Even though the doctors have said, “Oh – it will pass – it’ll be over before you know it and he’ll be a teenager, ho-ho-ho,” the colic isn’t over yet. If anything it’s gotten worse, and if you are on flight 338, you might as well just come up and sock me one in the mouth in the pre-boarding area, as a pre-emptive strike, to make yourself feel better. Because, if he has one of his major meltdowns, one of those hellacious screaming jags where he sounds and acts like “Taz” (the Tasmanian devil from the old Warner Brothers cartoons), you will find yourself wishing you were riding a squeaky ten-speed all the way to St. Louis.

Sometimes when Carter gets really engrossed into one of his fits, as I try to soothe him (a.k.a. restrain him), I’m reminded that we really are just animals. Without his parents, his toys, his books, his loving family and his eventual state-sponsored education, Carter is just a cave baby, waiting to grow up into a caveman.

Which is exactly what Carter was acting like when we did our “holiday travel test run” to St. Louis back in October: a cave baby. In the little guy’s defense, his daddy was as tense as suspension bridge cabling, and I was holding him right against my boiling belly, which was brewing into a future gastrointestinal problem caused by stress. All of this was no doubt telegraphing to Carter, making him spastic.

It was, after all, our first “big public debut” with the little man, and our first big public showing might as well be gigantic – might as well put that colicky baby in a long, slender tube with 140 other people and seal the doors for three hours, right? We had purchased a seat especially for our baby. Not that he could sit in it – we wanted it for space. Plus we wanted to make sure no one could sit right next to us – for their sake.

But we weren’t even on the plane yet – we were just standing in the “holding pen” at the gate, waiting for the boarding to start, when Carter started his very short, and very speedy trip to berzerkerville.

If you’ve never seen or heard a three-month-old in the grips of a colic fit, let me tell you that it is by far the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life. He seems as loud as a top fuel dragster (although according to medical reports I’ve read, he’s only a little louder than a jackhammer), and it’s downright baffling to hear that amount of noise coming out of something – someone – so small. The worst part of it is knowing that something is hurting the little guy, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

I jammed the pacifier in his mouth, to muffle the screaming, and rocked him as briskly as I could in the little area we had. This was our absolute worst fear coming true. Carter was screaming, crying, tensing his muscles, arching his back and locking all of his joints, and generally notifying everyone within scream-shot of gate A16, that he was extremely pissed off. Out of the 140 passengers ready to board this full flight, 138 were now looking at me (Carter’s eyes were forced shut in rage, and naturally, I couldn’t look at myself).

Everyone appeared to be sighing, already calculating that the odds were, they were going to be seated next to us. One old guy felt the need to further add to my gastric rumblings by giving me, my wife, and our howling child a nasty look as he broadcast: “Sure hope we’re not sitting near you.” My wife was fumbling with the diaper bag and our airport-bought dinner of two sub sandwiches and a flimsy paper tray overflowing with cold french fries. She patted the diaper bag and, yelling over Carter’s screams, she exclaimed to everyone, “We brought drugs! We have something for this!”

This, sadly, did not alleviate the glum looks from the 137 other passengers who watched us with loathing in their eyes and their arms folded across their chests.
The jetway agent graciously took us first, whisking us down the ramp while Carter carried on hysterically, like a fresh burn victim. We reached the end of the jetway, where we had to fold down and check the stroller and then do the two people traveling with infant tango, strapping straps, zipping zippers, shuffling sandwiches and other time-consuming behavior that clogs the jetway and makes one wonder why – oh, why – did I decide to travel with an infant?

And then the crowd started to catch up to our screaming jetway jam. I thought we were almost ready to go, but then I saw my wife trying to balance those damn french fries on top of a magazine she had ripped out of the carry-on bag. I pointed to a garbage can near the door that the man had just disappeared through with our stroller and shouted over our child’s screams, “Throw the _____ fries in the trash!” In that blank space, I used a very, very bad word. And that was it – the stress had seized me to the point where I snapped. I had just cussed at my wife in front of a bunch of strangers, while our child was melting down in my arms. My stomach flip-flopped and I wished I was somewhere—anywhere—else in the world than right here on this jetway making a complete ass of myself.

The missus (it is perfectly appropriate here to call her my better half) just nodded with understanding and said, “Oh – they’ll be fine,” and then she scampered on the plane, french fries and all.

Once we arrived at our row (the last one in the plane – we had asked for it), the missus started feeding our shrieking child and in one minute, he completely calmed down, as if nothing had happened at all. So that was it? Hunger pangs? I couldn’t believe it.

The missus settled in, and happily dined on a few fries while I put everything away in the overhead bins, and then slumped in my seat, mentally wasted. I sheepishly ate a couple of those cold, nasty, greasy things myself, to settle the gastric volcano in my belly.

We traveled all the way to St. Louis with our very quiet, and very calm little baby. While this was certainly great news once we landed, the acute anxiety of not knowing when “Taz” might show up during that long flight, coupled with our “Gate A16 adventure,” made me good friends with Immodium A-D for a couple days.

It is because of this, I feel compelled to warn you about Southwest flight 338 on December 24: there may be a cave baby on board. He’ll be with his caveman father, who may have a fat lip.