I always kept an emergency pad in my purse. Of course, it wasn’t meant for me. It was meant for those “just in case” situations that you hope will never happen, like helping a friend in need, dealing with an unforeseen event, or maybe even helping my kid one day. It sat there quietly among the pencils, receipts, and hand sanitizer, a sign of readiness that I never thought I would need. Not like this, though. Not on a plane, not in the middle of a flight, and definitely not when my daughter’s life changed in ten seconds.
We were somewhere in the Midwest, halfway through a two-hour flight to see her cousins. Talia, my eleven-year-old daughter, was wearing earbuds and laughing at something on her tablet. She looked at me, and her face was pale but peaceful. Then she said, “Dad…” in a voice that was just above a whisper. I guess my time of the month has started.
The edges of her voice broke. Not quite panic yet, but near. It was like a kid who was terrified and lost when they went to a new location and looked for anything to grasp on to. I halted for half a second because my mind was racing: Is this her first? Does she know what to do? What if she is leaking? What can I say that won’t hurt her feelings or make her feel weird? Then my gut took over. I grabbed the pad out of my bag and murmured softly, “You’re fine, pumpkin.” Go ahead. “I’m here.”
She took it and almost floated down the aisle, her eyes leaping from seat to seat and her other hand securely holding the front of her hoodie. She went into the small bathroom on the plane, and I couldn’t move. The sound of the jet engines and the ring of the seatbelt warning didn’t signify anything to me anymore. I couldn’t stop thinking about my child in a small, clean bathroom, facing something so private and vulnerable, miles above the ground.
It took a few minutes. A lot.
Then a flight attendant came up close and seemed unhappy. “Sir, your daughter is looking for you.” She seems unhappy.
I was standing there, and my chest tightened as I walked down the aisle and said sorry to the person next to me. I went to the back, and the seconds seemed to last forever. I knocked lightly on the door to the restroom and leaned in close, lowering my voice. “Pumpkin? It’s Dad. Are you okay?
A pause. Then, from behind the door, a little voice that sounded wobbly murmured, “It leaked.” The liquid got into my pants.
I closed my eyes for a moment. I wasn’t angry; I was just sad in a way that only parents can understand: the pain of seeing your child feel embarrassed, ashamed, or uncomfortable. You’d do everything yourself if you could. I said softly, “It’s okay, sweetheart.” “That can be fixed.” Do you want me to get your sweater from the top?
I took a light whiff. “Yes.”
I ran to her door wearing the blue hoodie I usually wore on flights that were too hot. When the door opened, a flight attendant helped me hold up a blanket so people couldn’t see me. My daughter went outside, her eyes were cloudy and her lower lip was shaking. She was trying to be courageous, but she was still a kid, and everything seemed too big for her all of a sudden. I gave her the hoodie, and she tied it tightly around her waist. She was too ashamed to look me in the eye.
I didn’t care about my knees, the weird angle, or the folks who were trying not to look but were doing so anyhow. I squatted down in that tight space. “You did great, Talia,” I murmured as I held her hand, which was still a little damp from anxious sweat. You did it.
She didn’t say anything at all. She nodded, blinked quickly, and held my hand tightly, much like she used to do when she was four and afraid of the dark. That squeeze said more than words could. It was faith. Being thankful. Thank you, God. gush. Love.
We quietly went back to our seats, and I let her lean on me. When she put her earbuds back in, the video was simply playing in the background. I could feel her body relax, her respiration calm down, and the storm pass.
When we got there, she said, “Thanks, Dad,” without looking up. I just smiled, nodded, and said, “Anytime, sweetheart.” I will always be there for you.
And I do. Always.
That flight made me think that being ready is not just about having the correct things; it’s also about being there on time. Don’t worry. No shame. You just need love, presence, and patience. You might also want to bring a hoodie and a pad just in case.