I alluded to a “cookie-eating truck driver” in my December 27th blog post. Here is the story about trucker biker cookies on a plane! Along with the story about the sparrow and the surfer dude, this is one of my absolute favorites.
First, some background.
eleven days
Luke was born on May 29th. We met him May 30th. He was released from the NICU and officially into our care on June 2nd. Allan flew back to Ohio on June 3rd, returning to our older two kids and his job. I got official clearance on June 7th to leave California with Luke. Lunch with Luke’s birthmom on June 8th. Luke and I flew home June 9th. He was just eleven days old.
Let’s pause here. Really embrace that timeline for a moment.
I was a newborn’s sole caregiver, protector and provider in an unfamiliar city thousands of miles from home with no back up for almost a full week. Any ring of my cell phone could mean that the adoption placement had fallen through. If I had fully processed what was happening, I would have had a full-fledged panic attack. Hour by hour, I held it together. I leaned into science programs on TV, bologna sandwiches and texts from family and friends.
Until, I was NOT holding it all together anymore. Suddenly it was GO TIME! Time to check out of the hotel (my safe cocoon), drop off the rental car and fly home solo with Luke.
* CRACK *
Hear that? That is the sound of my strong armor starting to crack apart.
cracks in my armor
Here is an example of a big crack in my armor. The TSA screeners in California seemed a lot more intense than we had experienced in Utah or Ohio. How would I ever manage airport security alone with a baby and all his gear? What if I lost something essential? What if other people got mad I was so inefficient and SLOW?
* CRACK *
I had just enough diapers and formula with me to cover Luke until we landed in Cincinnati. What if I missed our connection in Salt Lake City and got caught without provisions for him? Oh, man. Then what if Luke screamed his little head off? And what if I couldn’t provide for and comfort that hungry, pee-soaked baby?? Airport security!
* CRACK *
I was running on adrenaline and caffeine fumes. As a result, how would I safely hold a newborn on two flights? I could barely hold open my own eyelids. What if he slid out of my arms and rolled under the plane seat? What is somebody STEPPED ON HIM??
* CRACK *
Don’t laugh. These were actually the crazy things racing through my exhausted and very emotional head at that time. Shall we continue? There were plenty of more cracks happening in my armor.
I had no official paperwork saying that Luke was legally in my care. How would I explain myself if airport security accused me of smuggling a baby? Would the police arrest me? Would I have to return to California to “straighten things out”? GASP – could I go to jail??
* CRACK *
Oh, and those bologna sandwiches I ate all week in the hotel room? What if I suffered Oscar Meyer’s Revenge on the airplane???
* CRACK *
my biggest fear
Truth be told, none of those cracks were my biggest stressor. Nope. I was actually most afraid of being seated on the plane next to someone who was openly critical of me or the situation. We’ve all had the experience of waiting at the airport and seeing someone flying with a small child. And that’s when we’ve all had the same thought… “Dear God, please do NOT let those people be near me on this flight!!!”
Well, suddenly Luke and I were THOSE people. I was the one with the small child that everyone on the flight wanted to avoid. I prayed all night and that morning for God to put me next to some sweet grandmotherly type who loved babies and loved adoption and would just be kind to me. If not, I was in danger of having a breakdown right there on Delta.
Speaking of breakdowns, there was no sweet grandmotherly type waiting for me. And my cracking armor? Well, it cracked even wider when I realized my seat neighbor for the duration of the flight was a big, burly trucker/biker looking dude. Yes, I am guilty of stereotyping him. Yep, I judged him based solely on his rough appearance. No, I am not proud of that fact. But no way this guy was the answer to my prayer.
a calloused hand on a peach fuzz head
Trucker/biker guy (who introduced himself as “Wayne”) asked me how old Luke was and why I was traveling alone with such a tiny baby. Cautiously I told him the story. Big, burly Wayne surprised me with genuine tears in his eyes. Then, still teary, he shared HIS story with me. He told me that when he was 16 years old, his 14-year-old girlfriend had gotten pregnant. At that time, they had opted for an abortion. Wayne said that he thinks about that baby all the time and that his son or daughter would have been 42 years old now.
Wayne humbly asked permission to bless Luke. I agreed. He gently placed his big calloused hand on Luke’s peach fuzz head and blessed him with a happy life. The rest of the flight our new friend acted as a protector – making sure the air was not blowing directly on us, that we had plenty of room, that I could reach what I needed. All of that was a welcome relief.
The best part? My new friend asked for extra cookies for both of us when the flight attendant came around with the snack cart. Extra cookies! How did Wayne know chocolate chip cookies speak comfort to me?!! I felt safe and secure eating those trucker biker cookies on the plane. I could not have asked for a better neighbor on that flight!
unexpected packaging
And so, God sent exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it. True, the packaging was not at all what I expected. The sweet grandmotherly type I wanted turned out to be a trucker/biker guy with extra cookies on a plane. A tattooed answer to my prayers named Wayne with comfort for me and a heart-felt blessing for my peach-fuzz son.
I hope that Luke and I were helpful back to that gentleman somehow. We parted ways in Salt Lake City, and I caught the connecting flight to Cincinnati with time to spare. A little more confident. Much less afraid. Cookie crumbs on my shirt. Fewer cracks in my armor.
Adapted from 7/1/2018 Facebook post. Image by Scottslm from Pixabay
