Next to one another, my husband lying flat on the canvas lounge, one leg on the ground, eyes fixed forward and I, sitting with my legs to him, elbows on knees, head down in shame, eyes closed. How did it come to this? Exhausted, verbally spent, foggy. So much has been said, yet nothing truly of consequence nor significance. I love him. He loves me. But the last twelve hours have tested our companionship, civility, and ability to come together as a team.
Twisting my body, I lean back into my chair, carefully place my legs outward and fix my eyes on the mountainous cottony clouds. They come into view and pass so peacefully, smoothly. No notion of harm. No sound of threat, yet their sheer presence implies impending duress.
His voice laments, “Dear God, Sam, how did we get here?”
In my usually stall, I inhale deeply and hold …
We woke the family up at 4:30 AM to make our 7:30 flight to Charlotte and connect to Turks and Caicos. Running through Wheels, Malcolm, and Stewie’s rooms, I stuffed their charged electronics in their backpacks, reminded them about headphones, a change of clothes and books. I snuck a secret toy into each bag, grabbed Stewie, husband, and left for vacation.
Easy. Efficient. Mom-Awesome.
Too, of all of the above.
Attempting to check bags, both were too heavy. Great. Rearranged and took out the stuffed skunk Wheels had to have, .5 pounds under. Boom done.
While in the security line, NSA approaches and kindly suggested, “The line here is too long. Terminal B is faster, go down there. They have five lanes, A only has two.” Practically coercing us out of line, we proceed to B.
Terminal B’s line was astronomically long. I looked at my husband and he mouthed, “Bastard.” The line began to move, and so did Stewie. His nearly two year old body quickly began rejecting the confining line, rejecting my husband, rejecting me, and rejecting life. He was throwing his head backward, to the side, onto the ground whining. College kids stared, either irritated by the child or fearful of their future.
Progressing forward we’re now second, when the inevitable slow motion walk of another TSA member swaggers forward and slowly pulls the cloth tape, blocking us in the corral and coldly announcing, “K9 sweep” and leaves. After five rounds of “why can’t I touch the dog mom?” and 10 minutes for the dog to sweep the entire line, we were released and asked for tickets.
My husband hands her the pile, completely organized of course, with each family member’s ticket tucked neatly into their passport on the page with their pictures. She scans them, allows Wheels, Malcolm and I to pass, and denies entry to Stewie and my husband. “This baby needs a ticket too. This,” she enunciated while waving the incorrect boarding pass wildly, “is not enough. Go back and get it.”
Our eyes lock. Stewie is full on preforming an Exorcist move in my husbands arms, as the despair on his face turns to rage. When angry, his face doesn’t furrow, wrinkle, it goes unnaturally lax, with big wide eyes and the only tightness is in his lips.
I did the only thing I could think of. While kicking my shoes off, I waved to him and said “See ya later” as Malcolm chimed “Alligator”.
Yep, that made it worse.
Eventually, we all met at the gate (even though it turned out we did have the correct ticket). And the next 9 hours did not improve; Stewie was enamored with the planes and bolted frequently across the terminal enthusiastically screaming at the top of his lungs, despite clear instruction Wheels resolutely believed the motorized walkway was for riding and openly chastised all walkers, no one charged their devices, only one headphone was packed, Stewie headbutted my husband just to headbutt, each boy argued constantly over the other’s secret toy and books, no inflight entertainment, no purchase of my superstitious five trash magazines, and Stewie threw an epic tantrum while wiping his face across the germ infested terminal carpet and licking the seats. Most of these events occurred prior to touchdown in Charlotte and just continued with no one napping from 4:30 AM to 5 PM.
Worse than childish behavior made by children, are those made by adults.
My husband and I barked unhelpful comments all day. To the kids. To each other. And to each other again. It was inevitable, highly stressful and highly unusual. Embarrassing. Mostly my doing.
“Sam? Sam?” he cautiously whispered through the warm sea air. I exhaled my breath and turned my sore neck from the calming clouds to meet his weary gaze. A juvenile smile crept across his face, as belly laughs heaved his shoulders creating the warmth I love about him, but hadn’t seen all day. Gasping for air, his classic sly smile inquired, “Honey, how did we get here?”
“Careful love,” with the same smile, “It’s that look that got us into this mess in the first place.”
One desperate summer afternoon, days away from giving birth to Stewie, I tossed Wheels and Malcolm, into a a free play gymnastics class so I could nap with my eyes open. In walked another woman, all smiles and chatty with two kids. Instantly, in my pregnant stupor, I marked her as “way too nice,” verging on the irritatingly nice. But as the weeks passed, Kitty O’Shea continued spreading joy, but with the same wicked sense of humor and desire to make it through the day as myself, and not to the top of the school mom pyramid. Two years later, we have become very good friends with much more in common than I ever anticipated.
Mom-dern Vignettes 