Fuck traveling with kids

So I’m still recovering but sometime soon I hope to give you guys  a more thorough rundown on some of the high (and low) lights from our trip from Denver to the very end of Long Island with our whole damn circus of diapers and teething and tantrums. There were trains, planes, minivans, and ferries both to and from our family’s home on Shelter Island, which has always been one of my happiest places on earth. It still is. But going there with kids instead of as one of the kids is way, way less fun. Shocking, I know.

As a preview, during our twelve plus hour return travels yesterday, the baby I was holding for takeoff both threw up on me and pooped just as we were taking off after a 45 wait on the tarmac. Then she finally fell asleep, after I’d been squeezing and shaking and singing my heart out trying to get her to stop crying and just fall asleep already since boarding. Thus, I got to sit in my vomit-covered, shit-smelling seat awkwardly holding my now blessedly sleeping baby until the captain finally turned the seatbelt light off, when I then had to wake her up to change her. Much screaming and crying ensued (from both of us and probably some of the poor people in the surrounding seats). 

Seriously. I could not make this stuff up if I tried.

On the other hand, there was this:

Brothers are just the best. Also, bless the people of SI for building this playground.
And this:

H showing cousin E his “big hits.”

And this:

I’ve started calling her “Smiles” because she just slays me with those gleeful grins every time.

And this:

Captain Papa, H and me on the sunfish. I am so proud that my denver-born and bred boy loves the ocean as much as I do.

So, as with most things in life, there were some terrible parts but they were mostly made up for by the great parts in between. Give me a year and I might be willing do it all over again.

I don’t envy 

I don’t envy the women who never wanted children and therefore never had them.

I envy the women who though they might want children but had enough sense of self, even in their 20s or 30s, to realize they were not fit to be mothers, for one reason or for many. 

Had I had only one child I might never have realized my unfitness. Having three, it became glaringly clear, but also far too late. They are here. I am there mother. I am doing the best that I can. I am afraid. And sad, anxious, obsessive, compulsive, self-destructive, naracisstic, and everything else I was before I had kids times a million.