The first time I traveled alone with all three of my babies, I thought I was prepared.
Diaper bags were packed, bottles pre-filled, toys tucked neatly into the carry-on, and snacks ready for emergencies.
I told myself it would be manageable—after all, I was their mother, and who else could do this if not me?
But nothing prepared me for what happened at 30,000 feet.
My husband and I had boarded the plane together with our three little ones—Emma, just two years old, and the twins, Noah and Grace, barely six months old.
From the very start things felt overwhelming, with Emma wriggling in her seat and the twins fussing, their cries filling the cramped cabin.
Then, just minutes after takeoff, my husband leaned close and whispered, “I’m going to switch seats with someone—it’ll give me a little break.”
Before I could even protest, he had already moved down the aisle to an empty seat several rows away, leaving me frozen in shock.
Three small children pressed in on every side, and the heavy weight of responsibility sank hard onto my shoulders.
I tried to stay calm, bouncing Noah on one knee while cradling Grace against my chest, as Emma tugged and demanded attention.
And then, as if on cue, all three of them erupted into sharp cries at the same time, a storm of sound that rattled every corner of the plane.
Heads turned, frowns appeared, sighs echoed—no one spoke, but the weight of judgment pressed down from all sides.
My arms trembled as I tried to hold two babies at once, fumbling to steady a bottle while Emma pulled at my sleeve.
My heart raced, my cheeks burned, and the harder I tried to soothe them, the louder the crying became.
For a fleeting moment I wished I could vanish into the seat cushion, disappear from the stares and whispers surrounding me.