Everything happens for a reason, right? I mean that’s what we’re told. Surely it can’t just be a saying that we’ve adopted to help us get through the dark times. You know the ones I’m talking about. Those times when your heel breaks in the subway grate on your way out to a dinner date (oh wait…I’m a mom. I don’t remember what it feels like to go out on a dinner date and, more importantly, if they’re not Tom’s, Birkenstocks or my slippers, I’m not putting them on my feet anymore). What I’m really talking about are those times when you have a 5:30 pm flight from an airport that’s on the other side of the city (New York City nonetheless), and you’re daughter’s school day isn’t over until three and she doesn’t shimmy out of that big brick building until 3:15. Those times. But of course, this all happens for a reason (I am to believe). And maybe this did happen because we found our flight was delayed while we were stuck in traffic somewhere between the slightly whiney “He hit me” and the less slightly screeching “I want out. My buckle hurts.” A delay means that at least the little people won’t have to wait at the gate in an endless line that keeps getting longer and more endless with every passing moment that the flight is further delayed. They won’t be forced to watch everyone at the ready, poised to throw elbows in order to race down the jetway and find their coveted overhead space. They won’t have to endure the many glares and stink eyes that we inevitably get.
Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe the airplane was delayed because we were going to be late. This late plane was what was going to salvage this quick three day trip to Disney World, so we could start the Christmas season off with the bubbly Main Street snow and abundant cookies and hot–but not too hot–chocolate that we’ve come to associate with the season. (Although this year it wasn’t just the standard sugar cookies and hot chocolate–we were finding gingerbread cookies, egg nog, snow cones. This may sound good, but when the big little just wants the sugar cookie and hot chocolate she’s come to know and love, it is actually considered a form of torture (So maybe it was me and not the big little that wanted the sugar cookie. Fine. It was me. A girl has standards.) Either way, the positives in this trip looked like they were going to be what balanced and saved the negatives, so it was bound to be a restorative, yet quick, three days that would set the tone of Christmas celebrations to come (I know, famous last words).
Even when that delay was delayed, I knew it was for some reason. I had time to put my little people in their pjs and get them looking cute and fresh. They were fed. We weren’t falling apart, but ready to slip into our seats and snuggle our way into a late night flight to the happiest place on earth. We were ready. We were. And then it was delayed. Again. No big deal I thought, especially since my daughter told me she felt she might just sleep through this whole flight (other than overnight flights, she hasn’t willingly slept through a flight since…well…you get the picture). I thought the tiny little should be easy. He was flexible, could stay up late without getting cranky, and I’d be nursing him once we took off. The combination of snuggling, nursing, and the late hours pretty much guaranteed that in no time he would be dreaming sweet dreams of properly using a spoon and stealing his brother’s cars. Easy Peasy. The middle little? He’s his own man. No one really knows what to expect out of that one, but we were prepared and had him in a one to one ratio with his daddy.
Time to board and relax. I’m no dummy (or at least I don’t fancy myself one). I’m not one to drag much on board with me in the hopes that I can get anything done that doesn’t involve the little people, but still, this time, I had hope. I pulled out my Kindle and stuck it in the backseat pocket. All the kid stuff was put in its proper kid stuff space, and we took off with all the squeals and delights that have become customary for my littles. The tiny one laid back and started to relax, the middle little got sucked into his special iPad shows, and the big little was content watching a preview for an American Girl movie. Over and over and over. Then the tiny little sat up like a rocket and picked at my face. He grabbed my necklace. He kicked the arm of the chair. He grabbed his sister’s headphones. He tried to climb to the top of my head. He saw his daddy behind me. He cried for him. He tried to climb over the chair. He tried to climb through the chairs. He wiggled. He poked my neighbor. He poked him again. I apologized. He kicked the neighbor. He kicked him again. I apologized. I thought to myself, when did this little ball of blub turn into the most fidgety, picky, giggly, pokey little being I have ever had the privilege of holding in my arms? (It could have been a whimsical sweet thought, but let me be honest. It wasn’t. He spilled my wine.) Then his crying began to crescendo. And finally, with seconds to go in a flight that felt days long, he fell asleep.
But as it does, the light turned on so we could prepare the cabin for landing. And that tiny woke. And cried. And he fidgeted. And I fidgeted. And he got sweaty. And I got sweaty. And he cried. And I–wait a minute. I didn’t cry. (I mean not really. Not much.) Then he found the air vents and all was right with the world.
By the time we landed all of us were covered in sweat and tears, spilled apple juice and wine. We were so late we had to grab our own bags off of the luggage carousel and drag them to Mickey’s Magical Express (this is a service they usually do for you–unless it’s late at night). To our relief, immediately we were put onto one of the buses for our resort, except it didn’t go anywhere when we got on. We had to wait. And wait. (Catching onto a theme here?) When we arrived at our hotel there was no one to help us get our bags to our rooms. My husband dragged them there one at a time while I tried to soothe three intensely exhausted little people. Then only one of the cots we had requested was in our room, and upon calling, I was told it would take them quite some time to get the other to us. I pulled out my momma bear and that cot got to us shortly thereafter (I think the wailing two year old in the background punctuated my point). And then I managed to get all of those little bodies with their exhausted limbs, their tear-filled faces, into their beds. That night our children went to bed later than they ever have and as a result my expectations of our serene trip to the happiest place on earth shifted.
My children were going to wake up exhausted, short-tempered, overwhelmed by the day. They were going to be out of control on a day when both their daddy and I were exhausted and ill prepared for meltdowns. These three days were going to be spent just trying to brace ourselves for the flight home (fortunately it was an early morning flight). They would be too tired to want cookies and hot chocolate. The fake snow would fall in their eyes and they’d be upset. The little people would lash out at one another. That night, as my head sunk into the pillow, it seemed I couldn’t justify the stress of the nine hours it took us to get to Disney World. I couldn’t find the reason it happened that way.
And then the sun came up as it always does. And my little people were rousing. They spotted one another while their father and I buried ourselves deeper in our covers, and they giggled. They were eager. They were happy. After getting dressed, they chirpingly made their way to the park. There were no little hands picking at other littles hands, no squawking or screeching about fairness or wanting. It was calm. It was pleasant. It was amazing. My little people seemed unfazed by the day before, and they defied every new expectation I had created in my late night haze of exhaustion (it ended at three days when the tiny one and the bigger little got a stomach virus hours before boarding the flight home–but that’s a whole different story). Things happen for a reason.
But sometimes they don’t. Everything does not need to be the precursor to or result of something else. By far that trip to Disney World was the best trip I have ever taken with my little people. It defied every expectation and reminded me that one bad flight, one bad day, one bad experience cannot be the defining moment of traveling with little people. They move on. As parents, we have to too.