Never having traveled with a child, I was overwhelmed by what I needed to carry: food, toys, paper, crayons, markers, diapers, wipes, a change of clothes, and a travel stroller. And then there was my stuff. Thorin and I took a shuttle bus to Boston Logan International Airport. When we disembarked, I had to quickly learn how to push a stroller and pull a suitcase at the same time.
I had a terrible fear of flying. My routine was to sit next to the aisle for easy escape when the plane went down. It was great if I could get my seat partner to keep the shade down. Otherwise, I kept my eyes closed and pretended I was on a bus. Thorin, who had never flown, had other ideas: he pushed the shade up and looked out the window. I couldn’t keep my eyes closed because I was a parent now.
On the first flight of our trip, we ran into the most terrifying turbulence I had ever experienced. Thorin was actually bouncing above the seat; he loved it, laughing hysterically and making the sign for more. I turned to look at the guy across the aisle. He was watching Thorin with a huge grin on his face.
“Kids, right?” he chuckled.
The connecting flight required us to go through security, again. We were stopped by TSA.
“Ma’am he has to walk through the scanner.”
“What? He can’t walk,” I said. “I don’t understand.”
“You can carry him then.”
The alarm went off.
“Ma’am, take his pants off, please,” the TSA agent said. “And remove your barrettes.”
I stood numb.
“Ma’am, his pants have metal on them, and your barrettes,” the TSA agent said, motioning to me.
The line behind us backed up as I unhooked Thorin’s overalls while holding him and pulling the barrettes out of my hair.
“Ma’am, hand me your bag. We need to search it.”
“Ma’am, are you sure he can’t walk through?”
“He can’t walk.”
I watched as some conferring between the TSA agents ensued. Then I noticed a group of young men who I guessed were Indian. One of them stepped forward.
“Why are you doing this to a baby, sir?” he asked the TSA agent.
You could have heard a pin drop.
“Sir, you need to get back in line, now.”
I turned and mouthed “thank you” to our fellow traveler. I felt the same as our defender. I knew it was wrong but I wasn’t going to win against TSA.
“Okay, you can carry him through,” the TSA agent said.
After I went through the scanner, two TSA agents laid Thorin down on a stopped conveyer belt and patted him down. They lifted his thin sweater and T-shirt. They opened his diaper, looked inside, and reattached it. They went through everything in our bag, placing the objects on the belt. They tested the liquid in his juice container.
When they were done one of the agents said, “Okay, you can go.”
I felt like we had been beat up.
“They’re jerks,” the woman behind me in line whispered in my ear. “What gate? I’m going to get you there.”
The woman helped me repack my bag and dress Thorin. She walked us to our plane and gave us both a goodbye hug. I couldn’t say anything to Thorin. I wanted him to think it was a normal occurrence. During the flight, I felt sick about what had happened. I knew it had to do with Down syndrome somehow because in our short time with Thorin most things people did that were rude or offensive had to do with Down syndrome.
My mom picked us up at the shuttle station. She and I started crying. She held Thorin as she hugged and kissed him.
“I missed you so much, Thorin!” she told him as he burrowed into her neck stroking her hair.
Then she offered him ice cream.
“Mom, it’s dinnertime.”
“Why can’t we have ice cream for dinner? Right, Thorin?”
Thorin responded with two thumbs-up. I was outnumbered.
Later in the evening, my mom informed me she had bought an inflatable mattress—for me. Thorin would sleep with her in the bed. As I tried to get comfortable in the living room, I heard them giggling. Then Thorin would sigh, followed by murmuring and more giggling.
At breakfast, my mom announced she wanted to show off Thorin to everyone. Our days were filled with visits to relatives and family friends. She also brought Thorin to cocktail hour in the great room at her senior living complex; the joint was rife with grandparents.
“May I present the best grandchild in the world!” she told the assembled group, which stopped all conversation. Then my mom whispered to me, “I think they’re shocked at how beautiful Thorin is.”
“Well,” I whispered back, “they’re shocked by something.”
One morning while Thorin slept in, my mom told me about a couple who lived on another floor. The previous week, she had found out they had had a granddaughter with Down syndrome who died when she was five years old. The wife had wanted to share a photo of her granddaughter with my mom.
“I never show her picture to anyone because I don’t know what the person will say.”
She and my mom looked at the photo. My mom commented how pretty her granddaughter looked. They also talked about Thorin. During our stay, I ran into the husband taking my mom’s trash out. He introduced himself to me by saying his granddaughter had Down syndrome. Before I could say anything, he continued.
“We loved her. We didn’t care that she had Down syndrome. None of us did. She lit up our lives. You know what? No one ever said congratulations when she was born. Not one person. Then she got sick. She had a bad heart. It killed me when she died. Twenty-four years ago . . . I still miss her every day. You know what? People said things like it was a blessing but it wasn’t; it was awful.”
My eyes were wet. I looked up at him. His powerful arms were crossed tight against his chest straining his shirt.
