Our calm travel day.

I could only make it so far.

I pick up the clothes off the floor, the bathroom sink, the side table in the extra long hallway where toys and sunscreen sticks have also gathered. 

I fold the girls tiny t-shirts into little squares and stuff them into our green packing cubes. I shake off sand from the sheets that’s made its way in from the beach. I wrangle the used towels into an organized pile on the blue tiled bathroom floor.

Our vacation stuff is all over and we have a long day of travel ahead of us and yet I’m surprised at how calm I feel. Maybe it’s all the natural light, the view of the ocean and the oversized coffee mugs. 

Before it’s time to leave for the airport, we walk to get Whalebone smoothies, and I order a ‘Californian’ smoothie, announcing to everyone that I do not want to share. 

When we get dropped off at the airport I realize we never took a family photo, so we take a selfie at the ticket counter for the family photo book. We board our flight and sit on the plane as the flight attendant tells us we are waiting for maintenance to “fix a screw, or a plug, or something else…” We wait 15 minutes, then 30 minutes, then 60 minutes. 

People begin to take out their headphones and start talking to each other. The plane is filled with the sounds of people mumbling on the phone, telling their rides on the other end they will be late, and then shouting at the American Airlines customer service agents to rebook them on the next flight out immediately. 

While passengers make their calls, and start to talk to one another, I walk up and down the aisle shushing Kate who has grown irritable. She eyes the seated passengers and points out her findings, “hat, mama, glasses, mama, baby, mama.”  

To avoid the distractions we stand by the bathrooms at the back of the plane and my palm pats her diapered butt again and again. Her blue eyes roll back, eyelids slowly closing and opening and she rests on my shoulder. The heavy weight on my right bicep tells me she’s given in and fallen asleep. 

I slide back over Clayton’s legs and into the middle seat, Kate a log on my lap. 

We approach the 90-minute mark of sitting at the gate and yet I’m surprised at how calm I feel. Maybe it’s the built-in tv screen on the airplane that had Frozen, the sleeping toddler, and my one free hand to start a draft of my essay. 

Eventually the screw, or the plug, or the something has been fixed which means we take off for our layover. We miss our flight so we have four hours to occupy before the later flight home. We weave through the crowds of people and find a quiet spot where the girls can play. They use wipes to wash their baby dolls, they do stretches, they watch planes get loaded with suitcases. 

I stuff my phone in my backpack and don’t try to do anything except watch them, which means I don’t yell when they drag their blankets on the airport carpet or when Caroline refuses to go potty and instead goes limp over the back of the black faux leather airport chairs. 

Four hours pass and we’re ready to board our flight back home. We approach the jet bridge and Clayton and Caroline scan their boarding pass as a rhythmic ding echos a sound different from the declining beep I hear as my boarding pass barcode is scanned. 

“There’s no lap child on this ticket,’ the gate agent tells me. 

“Well she’s here in my arms,” I want to say, but instead say with an upbeat tone, “Hum, well let’s get her added then.” 

They ask for me to step aside as they click buttons on their computers and board the rest of the plane. I wave Clayton on telling them I’ll see them soon, and to get Caroline settled. 

Kate and I stand at the counter waiting for them to print and reprint the boarding pass which keeps printing without the added ‘lap-child' code that will allow us to board. The gate area is empty, I can’t see any more passengers on the jet bridge as ‘Final Boarding’ displays on the screen behind the counter and yet I’m surprised at how calm I feel. 

Two minutes before the scheduled departure time they hand me a working boarding pass and Kate and I step onto the plane as the flight attendant shuts the big metal door behind us. 

We eat our remaining fruit sticks and pretzels and spend the late flight in  interrupted waves of conversation with the woman across the aisle who ‘loves babies, and just came back from 10 days in Rome, and can’t believe how cute the girls are.’ 

Once we land, we make our way to baggage claim. I change Kate’s diaper while she’s standing up and we explain to Caroline in long-winded, frantic statements that, “this is in fact THE last chance for a potty break,”  and that, “it’s a long drive ahead,”  and that, “SERIOUSLY this is the last opportunity to go potty.” 

She declines but I can’t help myself and repeat a variety of synonyms that express to Caroline we are “ABSOLUTELY not stopping to go to the bathroom once we get in the car.” 

We carry the bags on our backs and our fronts while pushing the stroller and carrying Caroline who, “cannot walk anymore, mommy.”. 

We get to the van, rummage through the bags for Jammies and slide them over the girls heads– praying for a car seat to bed transfer after 100 miles of interstate 70. 

“I have to go potty.” Caroline says between squinted eyes. 

I inhale deeply, puffing my chest with the rage of the fact that I literally just asked in 16 different ways. We set up the travel potty between the side of the van and the truck next to us. She sits on the potty and we wait.

We keep waiting. 

 She tells us she’s pushing but it’s not working, and we tell her she has one minute or she has to wait until we get home in an hour and a half. We give her a two minute warning, a one minute warning and then another two minute warning before she tells us it finally worked. 

We buckle them in their carseats, kiss them goodnight and head down the highway to home. 

The questions start immediately. “Why are there lights outside on the poles? Why are there lights outside on in the cars? Why are there lights on those signs? Mommy, mommy, mom?!”

I arch around from the front seat, “Caroline, it's way past bedtime, it’s time to sleep. Your dad and I need to focus on driving and YOU need to focus on sleeping. 

“You’re not even driving mom,” she says. 

I ignore her commentary, but it continues, the repeated questions transform into undisguisable sounds, squeals and tones that are high-pitched and bound to wake up sleeping Kate. 

“Why are there lights outside on the poles? 

Why are their lights outside on in the cars? 

Mom, my blanket isn’t covering me up.

You are not listening to me. 

My feet are cold. 

Mommmmm, I need a blanket. 

I aggressively unbuckle my seatbelt and throw myself towards the backseat, snatching the wrinkled up blanket from her hands and tuck it roughly around her torso and legs. My nostrils flare as I clench my teeth and tell her how disappointed I am that she cannot lay still and close her eyes, and I need her to sleep because, “I can’t take it anymore.”   

I face forward, huffing my anger through my nose. I hear her quiet sobs and sniffles and instantly regret my snap.

Maybe it’s the 10-hour travel day, the day ahead of back-to-back meetings on my calendar, or the fact that I stayed calm all day long.