Your plane takes off from LAX, and you breathe a sigh of relief. You’ve almost made it. Just a few more hours and your absurd solo parenting adventure will come to an end. And your kids are stir crazy because the youngest haven’t exercised much at all today. And you don’t care about limiting their use of screens, because you’re in the last lap and you’re running on fumes. The beverage cart comes by and sure, they can have apple juice, even though it’s just liquid sugar. Because you’re almost done, man. You’ve practically clocked out already.

Then, about forty five minutes after takeoff, the captain comes on the intercom. He’s “not getting any readings” from one of the engines.

Mmm?

It’s fine, he says, and the engine is working and whatnot, but he can’t keep on flying with this situation. So the plane has now turned around, and is headed back to LAX.

And he says you may see emergency vehicles and fire trucks beside the runway, but that’s no cause for alarm. Cuz it’s all good and routine and protocol and such.

And your kids look at you. And you’re like “uh, yeah, you heard him. It’s nothing to be worried about. Just a hiccup in our travel plans. Here, have some trail mix.”

And your first thought is “f*ck!” And that’s also your second thought. And your third is that they will probably put you on a new plane where you’re not seated together, which will be balls awful. And your fourth thought is that they may not get you out tonight at all.

But it’s your fifth thought – the thought you won’t fully articulate even to yourself – that gnaws at you. You watch the faces of the flight attendants as they skitter past to pick up trash from the beverages they only just handed out. Do they seem tense?

They seem tense.

You force yourself to read your book, but keep re-reading the same paragraph because you keep missing whatever it’s trying to say. You get out a highlighter to try and guide your comprehension: “. . . beyond a certain threshold, inequality begins to undermine economic dynamism and therefore also investment, employment, and prosperity . . .”

What if the Captain is just pretending to be calm?

“Affluent households tend to spend less of their incremental income (what economists call the ‘marginal propensity to consume’). As such, with the bulk of the gains going to this group, income growth does not translate into anything like the historical increase in demand.”

What if this plane is in serious trouble?

“This aggravates the broader problem of inadequate aggregate demand, which itself hinders the structural reforms that are key to increasing productivity over time.”

Two flights in a row where you’ve had to seriously contemplate your own mortality?!

“That is to say, income and wealth inequality go from being part of a dynamic capitalistic system to undermining it.”

Shit. You’ve just highlighted a whole paragraph that you still didn’t read.

In some quantum physics Hell, your flight back seems to take three times as long as the flight out. But you land safely. And you’re so grateful. You’re not even cranky about the havoc this has wrought on your schedule. You’re just glad your kids are safe.

Then you’re in the terminal, waiting around for the gate attendants to tell the whole group of fussy passengers what they’re going to do with you all. Because nobody seems to know.

And your youngest two are running around and giggling (perhaps a sugar high from the apple juice). And you’d normally reign them in out of some sense of obligation to the people nearby. But they’ve been such troopers. And that plane trouble was unnerving and/or maybe even kinda scary. And they’re alive! And it seems cruel to prevent them from playing right now, even if it is kinda boisterous play.

And some stern old dude with a rod in his ass glares at your cackling son, though your son is oblivious to him. And then he looks at you, with a judgmental “spare the rod, spoil the child” kind of vibe. And your eyes meet. And your face breaks into a smile. Not an embarrassed smile that says “sorry, I’ll do better”. Not a thin smile that curtly says “thanks, I got this”. But a slow, strong smile that says “I could put an end to their play, but I won’t, because I reject you and everything hidden in your tiny black heart”.

And he huffs and looks away. Back to Mordor.

And judging by their gleeful antics, the airport seems like the best part of the trip for your kids. Which is bananas, cuz this straight up sucks. But maybe their endurance of this means they’ll hold up well if they’re ever waterboarded.

Then you’re told there’s a replacement plane. And you’ll be boarding shortly, though it’s unclear as to whether your checked luggage will be coming with you. Whatevs. You’re just glad to be going home.

And then you’re on the plane. And all of this serves you right for thinking you could clock out early, you slack ass. No apple juice this time, you hyper little lemurs.

It’s only once you’re in the air that you do a mental inventory of what was in your checked bag: running shoes – meh; good jeans – stings a bit, but whatever; puffy vest – it hasn’t really been cold enough to need it; the wetsuit that makes you look like fat Mr Incredible – bah!

Nope. No real loss, and certainly nothing for which you can’t wait a few days. So you return to your overly highlighted book and begin reading again, this time with actual comprehension.

And that’s when it hits you: your last minute decision at the ticket counter, your spur of the moment idiocy that led you to stuff Sexy Windbreaker in your checked bag!

Shit.

He is going to be SO PISSED.

Pissed like a wet cat. Enduring an IRS audit. In Detroit.

You hope, for his sake and yours, that he’s in the belly of the plane right now. And that this will all just be something you laugh about someday over brandy and maybe nachos. Because if he’s not – no, no! It’s too terrible to contemplate. He IS in the plane. He HAS to be.

You spend the rest of the flight looking at the lone yellow page in your book.