We’ve all been on the flight where somewhere, maybe a few rows back, maybe right across the aisle from us, a baby is screaming and screaming.

Ninety percent of the people on an airplane are in misery to start with. Maybe they are on their way home from the funeral of an aunt they didn’t love but who is the last person to remember their mother as a young girl. Maybe they have traveled to six cities in five days to pitch construction technology to jet lagged businessmen from China. Maybe they are jetlagged businessmen from China. Maybe they have just left their lover who will be overseas for the next six months. Maybe they are their way to their lover and aren’t there yet. Maybe they are alone.

And then the baby starts screaming. It’s piercing. It’s louder than the engine hum. It is relentless.

There was a woman in my new parents’ group who used to joke about passing out earplugs when she got on the plane with her baby. It was one of my big fears, to invade so many people’s space. And then it happened to me, and it wasn’t so bad.

I mean it was bad. David screamed for an hour and a half solid. Nothing helped. I tried nursing. He refused. I tried bouncing him when the seatbelt sign finally went off. I tried a new diaper, warmer clothes, cooler clothes, lights off, holding close, holding up. If I thought holding upside down would have done it, he would have been dangling by his ankles.

I got not one dirty look. Well, a flight attendant reeled back in agony when David let loose at her eardrum, but otherwise, everyone pretended not to notice. Or they looked sympathetic. My seatmate stroked David’s head. The teenager a few rows back tried to interest him in her stuffed alligator. And frankly, as it went on and on, I stopped worrying about them. I was in agony for David. My ears hurt, and I figured so did his. Finally, finally he nursed and slept.

I’m sure all those people in misery or just wanting to read their books in peace didn’t appreciate my baby on their airplane, but I appreciate them.