Last week when I read Kristin Howerton’s Can We Bring The Holidays Down A Notch? I laughed and cried. I laughed because I didn’t have multiple school age children complaining to me about St. Patrick Day celebrations, but I cried because I know it’s coming. As it is, I’ve already struggled with how to bring them down after insane birthday celebrations and the holiday festivities are creeping in right behind them as sugar-fueled, expectation-riddled greed-fests. Continue reading
Every January since I discovered the practice of yoga, I’ve written my intentions for the upcoming year. It’s not a “to-do” list or a “to-don’t” list and it contains nothing that will make me feel bad about myself. I see it as an opportunity to articulate my priorities with a bit of specificity.
Last night I revisited my intentions for 2012 for the first time since I wrote them:
-Find a way to quit my job to devote more time with the kids = check.
-Blogging = I started here in this humble space less than a year ago and have since added legit paid freelance work on sites I love. Rating: exceeded expectations.
-Yoga = while pregnant and nursing (2008-2012 continuously) I practiced yoga mostly to maintain my sanity. Now I am ready to get back into conditioning – physical and spiritual – and it’s a little intimidating. Rating: still a work in progress.
Don’t think I was slacking, I always keep my list to a manageable 3-5 items. Under that short list was a note, “Be steady this year. Keep up with the blogging, keep developing the writing. This is a process year, don’t focus on results. Just keep at it. Re-evaluate in 2013.” I have never officially declared myself a psychic, but if I did it would be based on that quote (and it’s verbatim).
Ian and I already rang in the New Year and no, we aren’t in India. We are just wild and crazy like that. Rather than spending our evening squished among drunk tourists from Portugal, Kansas, or worst*, New Jersey and paying double not only for a sitter but for admittance to our favorite local bar, we went the cheap, er, practical route. We called our sitter at 8:30 this morning.
Our family is spread out across the country and our typical plane ride is 4 or 5 hours. So I am always looking for tips and tricks for flying with kids. I am already the queen of snacks; last flight I stowed away 2 slices of pizza, 2 baby yogurts, 2 Greek yogurts, a block of cream cheese, and HOMEMADE chocolate chip pancakes (among other things). Trust me, I will never be caught with hungry toddlers. I also always have new toys, old favorites, and lots of crayons. I take great pains to make sure the long flight is as enjoyable for me, them, and our fellow passengers as possible (I mean, I’m still human people. I’m good, but not a miracle worker).
Never one to rest on my expert toddler traveling laurels, I thought of a new idea this time around. When the airline invited families traveling with small children to board the plane first, I sent my husband alone. He took all our bags so he could ensure adequate overhead space. He took the Handi-Wipes so every inch of our space would be disinfected before the kids began licking the seats. He took all the snacks to prepare the mise en place. It was me, the kids, their Cars 2 cars and our boarding passes. It was genius. I brought them to the bathroom where we played with the automated sinks. We went to the huge windows where we watched airplanes take-off and land. I was just strolling over to Hudson News for a bottle of water when I heard it.
LAST CALL BOARDING FOR FLIGHT 402 TO LAX
What? Last call? Ian just went up a few minutes ago, didn’t he? I checked my watch. It was 20 minutes ago! How is it possible that every time I check the clock during an intense game of block building only three minutes have passed and suddenly 20 minutes with the kids felt like no time at all? Either I was really gloating about this great idea or that Virgin America terminal was a time warp.
Without uttering a single curse word, I snatched up my 20 month-old and told my 3 year-old we had to RUN. My thoughts were faster than my feet and I immediately put together Plan B. I’ll call Ian and tell him they have to hold the plane. Except he has my phone. I’m sure there is a flight to LAX soon, I’ll take the kids for lunch while we wait for the next one. Except I have no wallet. Even if we got on another flight Ian has five hours worth of entertainment. Oh shiiiiiiiit.
Gavin must have recognized the gravity of the situation because for a single moment he didn’t even care that I beat him to the check-in desk. We huffed and puffed as we asked “are we too late?” “No!” they told me and they took my outstretched boarding pass and slid it under the scanner.
The electronic rejection noise alerted me we were in trouble. “Oh, this is Gate 37A last call for SFO. LAX is boarding at 37B.” Are you f*cking kidding me? There are only 11 gates, they can’t give them all their own numbers? What kind of piss poor planning is this? Of course I didn’t say any of that out loud and instead put on my best look of complete desperation. The woman returned it with a “you better run” face and no offer of help. Don’t they have an intercom? Walkie-talkies? Some sort of hand signals for the love of flying? Can’t she convey to the next gate there is a crazy mom on her way with two small children who will lose it if they watch their 7 packs of Fruit Snacks and borrowed IPAD take off without them? Apparently not.
We made the flight with all the fanfare of a Meg Ryan movie — just short of a Harrison Ford Air Force One leap from the gate onto a moving plane. The only known casualty was Miguel Camino, Gavin’s brand new Cars 2 car that was a gift on the way to the airport, though I really didn’t look back to see if anyone slipped on the pretzel bits Chloe sprinkled in our path as I jostled her to the gate.
I sat down red-faced and covered in a thin coat of sweat. In my best Taylor Swift dramatic tone I broke the news to Ian. “We are never, ever doing that again. Like, ever.”