The Sweet Spot

I’m writing this installation of the blog on an airplane with my family. I’m not sure you understand the magic that is taking place right now. I’m able to have thoughts, write them down, no one is touching me—I’ve waited so long for this day to come!

We take this particular trip every year. We live in the south so every year, if we’re lucky, we fly out west to play in the snow. It’s a big trip and takes the better part of a day. We’ve been doing this with our kids since our youngest were two and four. If you have traveled with a person under the age of five and experienced a plane ride or multiple plane rides, car rental, driving, hotel set-up and general travel fatigue, I think you are fully qualified to apply for a position with military special operations. The amount of preparation, endurance and mental fortitude it takes to travel with small children is better than any training the government could offer. Jumping out of a plane/sleeping in the wilderness/ pulling of a clandestine operation are NOTHING compared to trying to entertain a three-year-old for 3 hours while they’re strapped in a seat– NOTHING! I’m sure there are Navy Seals somewhere that can confirm my thoughts.

My absolute favorite memory of this trip took place about five years ago when my daughter was around two. It’s a four-hour flight, we’d done it several times with our sons, so we sort of knew what we were getting into—then we had a daughter. It was her second time making the trek and she proved to be a pro on the first attempt so we weren’t too worried (you can start smiling right about now). Little lady was a gem during the first hour, we were entertaining her like a couple of trained monkeys, but that’s just what you have to do with a two-year-old on a plane. Around hour two things started to go very wrong. She became fussy, so we switched up the entertainment, fed her candy, walked around a little bit. By hour three she was screaming at a decibel level I can only describe as blood curdling. A young childless couple moved seats because they just couldn’t take it anymore. They were sure to give us the “look” when they passed by. I was sure to issue a silent plea to the Universe that every one of their children had colic and acid reflux—don’t judge me, this kid had been screaming for HOURS!

Thanks to all things holy, she finally settled down about an hour prior to landing. I breathed a sigh of relief, I finally stopped profusely sweating and telling myself why I would NEVER travel with children again, ever, for any reason as long as I lived. I sat back and thought, “OK, we made it.” And then, this sweet little girl who was dressed in some adorable fuzzy, sparkly, fleece outfit vomited ALL OVER HERSELF. I’m prepared. This is my third kid. I’ve got enough wipes to clean up an oil spill. I take off her outside layer, wipe her down—mother of the year. But now, she’s really upset. Apparently the three previous hours of screaming were just a warm up for what she had planned for our descent. And then she vomited all over herself AGAIN and AGAIN. By the time we landed she was wearing nothing but a diaper and I was down to the last of the wipes. She deplaned wrapped in her brother’s sweatshirt and nothing else.

I think I may have kissed the ground when we exited the plane and I know I had a drink before we even made it out of the airport. Every mother I know has one (read: at least ten) of these fantastic stories about traveling with kids. There is a baby screaming right now as I type, and I can actually hear the parents sweating. It is not easy to drag tiny humans across the country or the world. It is the work of martyrs that are determined to show their kids cool stuff/visit family/take a break from life. It is the work of saints. If I do nothing else in my lifetime, I’m pretty sure that plane ride gets me to the pearly gates.

Or maybe this is my reward? Now, that little cherub is still seated next to me, but she is headphoned and deviced up. She’ll only contact me if she needs assistance with her snacks or her in-flight entertainment. This morning as we were driving to the airport, I thought this is the sweet spot. My kids are young enough that they’re still cute and fun and want to hang out with us, but they’re big enough to move through the world without four steamer trunks full of paraphernalia and a personal Sherpa. No one cried this morning as we got ready to get up and out to the airport. No one had a bathroom emergency as soon as we buckled. And, no one is talking to me. Maybe I have already died, and this IS heaven?

To all the mamas with portable car seats, thirteen strollers, pack and plays, and baby carriers strapped to their chests: I see you and I promise it will get better. I know you don’t believe me, and I don’t blame you, but don’t give up. Keep showing your kids cool things, keep teaching them how to move through this big wide world. Maybe have an extra bottle of booze—they’re so tiny on the airplane, they don’t count—but, don’t give up. One day you will get to set back and enjoy an interrupted plane ride and think back to your own personal “airplane puke” story and smile. You’ll get to enjoy traveling with your children. You’ll know that these trips are fleeting, but the memories are not. The memories stay with you and your kids long after they’ve grown and gone—even the pukey ones.