"I had never held a deformed infant in my arms before. To tell the truth, I had never even seen an infant like this before. Now, here I was responsible for delivering three tiny orphans to their adoptive parents on Christmas Eve.

     Twenty-eight years old, a New England Yankee through and through, I taught English on Cheju Island, Republic of Korea. College students all over the country had been rioting and had succeeded in closing colleges. I was fed up and needed to go home. One of my colleagues informed me of the "baby flights," whereby I could travel from Korea to the U.S. and back for a mere 25 percent of the normal fare. But there was a hitch. The traveler had to transport not one, not two, but three infants. That translated into at least three flight changes -- Tokyo, Anchorage and New York, in my case. I would have to bring diapers, formula, pacifiers and much patience. The alternative was to pay the full fare.

     I found myself boarding a plane with three infants, aged 3 months, 7 months and a year and a half. They came complete with runny noses and wet diapers.

When the plane finally took off, the poor kids let loose with a terrible howl. As the plane climbed, it began to vibrate violently. In unison, all the babies quieted. A few seconds later, the plane stopped shaking, and in unison, the babies resumed crying. The entire planeload of passengers burst into tension relieving laughter. And that made the babies instant celebrities.

     But one thing had given me pause the entire time. The eighteen-month-old infant, who was quiet as a mouse, had a massive head with disproportionately minute arms and fingers. Obviously, the poor thing was affected with dwarfism. My reaction surprised me. I was repulsed and began to worry if the new parents on the other side of the Pacific realized what there were having delivered to them. I didn't look forward to the transfer, but was too busy to give it much consideration.

     Babies were hollering. The one on my lap was wet, and the milk formula was low. I rapidly learned how to clean a wet bottom, put on a new diaper, and stick a pacifier in an open mouth.

     Two American marines stopped in the aisle near me and stared down.

     “You look like you could use a little help.”

     “I could three kids is a lot.”

      “Mind if we each take one for a few minutes?”

      “No, I wouldn’t mind at all.” I happily passed a baby to each of them and watched massive soldiers coo to babies.

      So, I sat there alone, holding the eighteen-month-old baby with the very large head. I noticed her long eyelashes. As I looked into her eyes, I couldn't help but see that they held a crisp, intelligent glow. Then she smiled, and I was hooked. Funny how things like that can change you. From that point on, she radiated beauty, and she never left my arms.

     In Tokyo the plane had a stopover. The soldiers apologized for not being able to help anymore as they had another flight. They each handed back a baby. I placed two babies in a twin stroller and carried the other in my arms.  The four of us plunked down in a waiting area. I started to change the diapers of the two babies I had given to the soldiers. A pile of single dollar bills fell from the babies clothing. I quickly glanced at the departing soldiers. One of them gave the thumbs-up sign and blurted, 'Little buggers gonna’ need all the help they can get. Merry Christmas.'

     Not many minutes later, an attractive Asian woman approached, stared at us and walked away.  I rocked a baby as two fidgeted.  The woman walked up again stared.

     “Are those babies yours?”

     “No, I’m delivering them. They are Korean orphans.”  

     “I thought so. Twenty-four years ago, I was one of those kids.  I think we are on the same flight. May I please help you?”

     She took the noisiest child of the three. During the flight, she’d show up and lend a hand, clean a bottom, or soothe an unsettled little one. Finally she took one infant, walked down the aisle, and I didn't see her until the plane landed.

     By now I had developed a string bond with 'my' baby. I even named her Tina. The more I thought about giving her to someone else, the more I worried about her prospective parents. I felt like a slave trader and a traitor all wrapped into one.

     In New York, the plane landed. People rushed in, matched identification tags and off they sped with their new children. But I still held Tina, and it seemed like nobody was coming on board for her. In the end, I trudged off the plane to a small crowd. Tina clung to me tightly and cried.

     Then I spotted them standing to the side of the exit. The man was no more than four feet tall, and his wife even tinier. They walked toward me, and the small hands of the midget couple reached up for Tina.  As I passed Tina to them, she said, 'Oma' to me. That means 'mom' in Korean.  At that point I cried.

       The next year, I paid the full fare. The baby flight was too expensive.