My in-laws just returned from a fantastic trip and gifted our girls with a beautiful set of handmade Russian nesting dolls. I was thrilled to receive them, as my sister and I grew up playing with our own set. I always found the doll within a doll-within-a-doll arrangement fascinating and strangely comforting. No matter how many dolls I opened, there were always more waiting for me; that final, solid doll, small, smooth and smiling in my hand, seemed like the perfect reward for my unscrewing efforts. Though the surrounding dolls were bigger and more vivid, she, the core doll, held everything together.
I thought of them tonight as I plodded sweatily through my run, thumb flicking through ipod song choices in a rather desperate search for inspiration. Somehow, I hoped, the right rhythm would move my feet, the right words would still my thoughts, the right tone would let me just let go.
Those first few minutes of my runs are the worse, as my 17-year-old self offers 33-year-old me snarky reminders of what "used to be," inevitably locking me in a stupid, stubborn battle over pace and distance. On a good day, I can quiet the competitive voices and lose myself in the run, luxuriating in the amazing space of time where I am responsible only for myself. On others, I have to fight my way through every step, knowing that, at the very (unpretty) least, I gained a small victory by even running in the first place.
You would think that my love for running - or, more importantly, my need to run - would ensure that I would be a regular runner all of my life. And yet, that hasn't been the case. Life has intruded along the way, with unspoken insecurities and fears often causing my running shoes to collect more dust than dirt. Any former athlete will tell you that the one of the hardest hurdles is getting back on track once you have stopped competing and working. It is a humbling, humbling process...
In the past year, my husband has lost a significant amount of weight. His transformation has been amazing to witness and I've met, for the first time in my life, the athlete he was in college. He rises early in the morning to swim, bike or run and has faced the challenge of reshaping his body, his mind and his self-image head on. He's been inspired and inspiring - and a complete wake up call for me. In the 10 years that I have known him, I have been the fit (or at least fitter) one. All of a sudden, my reality was redefined. I needed to find my inner athlete. And no one was going to unearth her but me.
As a new mom of two, I've learned a great deal in the past six months. I love my girls and have actually settled more naturally into motherhood than I did as a mom only to Claire. I have found my footing and love what life has become but in doing so, there are some parts of me that I've let slide into the background.
I think any mom will tell you that she keeps (the occasional?) score in her head. No matter how balanced a parenting partnership is, Mom is going to feel like she bears the bulk of the load and that Dad doesn't (quite) know what her day/heart/life/mind is all about. I'll admit it: I envied my husband's freedom to focus on his health and fitness. I was jealous of his time on his feet, on his bike, in the pool. I would sometimes grow irrationally frustrated with his fitness "ah-ha" moments and new running path discoveries, thinking that I had "been there, done that," so why was he an expert?
And yet, even in my crabbiness, I knew the truth: no one was going to get me back out there again but me. And no one would be a bigger cheerleader for me in that pursuit than my husband.
So, I've laced my shoes up again, purposefully carved out time during naps or bedtime and forced myself out the door. I even signed up again for a half-marathon. Who the hell knows how I'll actually do (racing makes me so nervous!) but I'm out there trying.
The other day, I went for my longest run since before Claire was born, finally letting go of my battle with pace and relaxing into the experience of the run. Crossing the driveway's finish line, I found my husband chattering at our youngest, her pajama-ed feet kicking away in the stroller as she oversaw Dad's garage organization. It was one of those scenes you capture with your heart's camera.
"How did it go?" he asked, taking in my panting form. Jenna blinked at me, curious and smiling.
"Actually, pretty great," I grinned.
And somewhere, deep inside, under all those other life layers, my little inner athlete smiled too.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Too
I've had some moments that aren't going to make the highlight reel of motherhood.
Take, for instance, my "argument" with my 23-month-old the other morning. After Claire threw everything out of her crib, a shrill "NO!" looping on repeat, I too became two. In a less than stellar performance, I countered with "Stop it!" and tossed a blanket in the corner for good measure.
She blinked at me, startled, breath hitching. Mom had officially lost it.
I hugged her without saying anything and for the next twenty minutes, we were very careful with each other. She played in her crib, singing along with the Wiggles while I headed to the shower to regather myself. Water pounding on my head, I contemplated my reflection in my husband's shaving mirror. There, blinking back at me, was my inner two-year-old.
Sometimes, in the heart of one of Claire's outbursts, I look at her face and know exactly how she's feeling. I see her emotion and imagine how freeing it would feel to be able to express myself without filter. If only I could fling myself to the floor in stubborn refusal to give in to someone else's directions. If only I could be unapologetically honest. If only I could let all my feelings fly out without restraint - all of the good and bad and in-between ones - and not later dwell on how I should have handled things.
As Claire approaches the beginning of her 24th month, she's living in high definition. Everything she feels, experiences and expresses is intense and new and sometimes all-consuming. Jeff and I are amazed at her seemingly overnight development. The little girl who wakes up in the morning is somehow vastly different than the sleepy toddler we put to bed at night. Her transformation is bittersweet for us: we are in awe of the little human she's becoming but often homesick for the baby that she was. Time is passing a bit too quickly.
While in the midst of a battle of wills with my oldest daughter, I don't have the capacity to focus on the bigger picture of her development. When she throws food off her high chair or kicks in protest against riding in the stroller or yells at the dog to get out of her way, I can't sit back with Zen-like calm and think, "This too shall pass."
But the truth is, it will. The challenging Mom-moments always do. More importantly, the innocent freedom that allows Claire to show exactly how she feels will someday disappear. I hope that as she grows, I can be a safe place for her to turn.
When we talk, face to face with older eyes, I want her to know that I understand her emotions. Because, chances are, I'll feel them too.
Take, for instance, my "argument" with my 23-month-old the other morning. After Claire threw everything out of her crib, a shrill "NO!" looping on repeat, I too became two. In a less than stellar performance, I countered with "Stop it!" and tossed a blanket in the corner for good measure.
She blinked at me, startled, breath hitching. Mom had officially lost it.
I hugged her without saying anything and for the next twenty minutes, we were very careful with each other. She played in her crib, singing along with the Wiggles while I headed to the shower to regather myself. Water pounding on my head, I contemplated my reflection in my husband's shaving mirror. There, blinking back at me, was my inner two-year-old.
Sometimes, in the heart of one of Claire's outbursts, I look at her face and know exactly how she's feeling. I see her emotion and imagine how freeing it would feel to be able to express myself without filter. If only I could fling myself to the floor in stubborn refusal to give in to someone else's directions. If only I could be unapologetically honest. If only I could let all my feelings fly out without restraint - all of the good and bad and in-between ones - and not later dwell on how I should have handled things.
As Claire approaches the beginning of her 24th month, she's living in high definition. Everything she feels, experiences and expresses is intense and new and sometimes all-consuming. Jeff and I are amazed at her seemingly overnight development. The little girl who wakes up in the morning is somehow vastly different than the sleepy toddler we put to bed at night. Her transformation is bittersweet for us: we are in awe of the little human she's becoming but often homesick for the baby that she was. Time is passing a bit too quickly.
While in the midst of a battle of wills with my oldest daughter, I don't have the capacity to focus on the bigger picture of her development. When she throws food off her high chair or kicks in protest against riding in the stroller or yells at the dog to get out of her way, I can't sit back with Zen-like calm and think, "This too shall pass."
But the truth is, it will. The challenging Mom-moments always do. More importantly, the innocent freedom that allows Claire to show exactly how she feels will someday disappear. I hope that as she grows, I can be a safe place for her to turn.
When we talk, face to face with older eyes, I want her to know that I understand her emotions. Because, chances are, I'll feel them too.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Love, Amplified
I'll admit it: as an oldest-child-mom-of-one, I was (a bit) worried about adding another baby to our family.
My husband, a middle child, gently teased, "Um, Megan? Life didn't end for my brother when I was born."
My sister, also a middle child, openly laughed: "Seriously, Megan? Would you prefer I wasn't here?"
My mom, yet another middle child, just smiled and patted me, offering, "A mom's heart is full of love for all of her kids. You'll see."
My head swirling with their words, I turned my anxiety inward, my heart twisting a little each time Claire sat on my lap, back pressed against my pregnant belly, her little sister tap dancing in utero. We had a cozy little world, the three of us and the dog. While I was thrilled to be pregnant with our second, I couldn't help but wonder what this new addition would bring.
Perhaps this is a worry shared by other moms, an unspoken one because there aren't really the "right" words to express the feeling. It's not that I wasn't excited to meet my youngest daughter or that I was worried I wouldn't love her as I did Claire. I think it was more of the unknown of it all...how would Claire feel? How would I share my time? Could I be the mom to our youngest that I had been to our oldest? What would happen to our marriage? At my most vulnerable, I even panicked about the dog. How would he react to another one? Would he ever have any attention? If I couldn't imagine adding another dog to our family, how was I going to add another child?
In the middle of the night, after yet another trip to the bathroom, I would pause in the doorway of the nursery, watching Claire breathe. She was my baby. What would another baby be like?
The moment Jenna was born, my heart exploded. The entire birth experience was a special one, maybe because we weren't so overwhelmed by what to expect. Jeff is a fantastic partner and there is something so intimate (even in such a institutional setting) about the world contained in that hospital room. When the nurses put her in my arms and I saw her face for the first time, everything my mom had said became clear. Jenna was meant to be ours.
Jeff and I tell first time expectant parents that the minute you meet your child, you love each other more than the day you got married. For as much joy, anticipation and celebration there is in "I do," there is ten times that in the welcoming of Baby. For us, welcoming Baby #2 intensified that feeling even more.
Holding Jenna, I was overcome with relief and wonder. My heart could hold both of my girls - and their dad. My world, my family, had grown in love.
When Claire burst into the room to meet her sister for the first time, her big eyes eager to see what all of the fuss was about, I knew that we had also given Claire a gift. She, like her mom, would have the chance to be a big sister. And there's nothing greater than that.
This morning, as we had breakfast together on the couch, Jenna on one knee and Claire on the other, Rocky snoring at my feet, I smiled at the fullness of my lap and my heart.
Adding to our family didn't divide my love, as I had quietly feared. It amplified it.
I am humbled and grateful for that gift.
My husband, a middle child, gently teased, "Um, Megan? Life didn't end for my brother when I was born."
My sister, also a middle child, openly laughed: "Seriously, Megan? Would you prefer I wasn't here?"
My mom, yet another middle child, just smiled and patted me, offering, "A mom's heart is full of love for all of her kids. You'll see."
My head swirling with their words, I turned my anxiety inward, my heart twisting a little each time Claire sat on my lap, back pressed against my pregnant belly, her little sister tap dancing in utero. We had a cozy little world, the three of us and the dog. While I was thrilled to be pregnant with our second, I couldn't help but wonder what this new addition would bring.
Perhaps this is a worry shared by other moms, an unspoken one because there aren't really the "right" words to express the feeling. It's not that I wasn't excited to meet my youngest daughter or that I was worried I wouldn't love her as I did Claire. I think it was more of the unknown of it all...how would Claire feel? How would I share my time? Could I be the mom to our youngest that I had been to our oldest? What would happen to our marriage? At my most vulnerable, I even panicked about the dog. How would he react to another one? Would he ever have any attention? If I couldn't imagine adding another dog to our family, how was I going to add another child?
In the middle of the night, after yet another trip to the bathroom, I would pause in the doorway of the nursery, watching Claire breathe. She was my baby. What would another baby be like?
The moment Jenna was born, my heart exploded. The entire birth experience was a special one, maybe because we weren't so overwhelmed by what to expect. Jeff is a fantastic partner and there is something so intimate (even in such a institutional setting) about the world contained in that hospital room. When the nurses put her in my arms and I saw her face for the first time, everything my mom had said became clear. Jenna was meant to be ours.
Jeff and I tell first time expectant parents that the minute you meet your child, you love each other more than the day you got married. For as much joy, anticipation and celebration there is in "I do," there is ten times that in the welcoming of Baby. For us, welcoming Baby #2 intensified that feeling even more.
Holding Jenna, I was overcome with relief and wonder. My heart could hold both of my girls - and their dad. My world, my family, had grown in love.
When Claire burst into the room to meet her sister for the first time, her big eyes eager to see what all of the fuss was about, I knew that we had also given Claire a gift. She, like her mom, would have the chance to be a big sister. And there's nothing greater than that.
This morning, as we had breakfast together on the couch, Jenna on one knee and Claire on the other, Rocky snoring at my feet, I smiled at the fullness of my lap and my heart.
Adding to our family didn't divide my love, as I had quietly feared. It amplified it.
I am humbled and grateful for that gift.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Reflections at the Kitchen Counter
I felt the urge to write today. It's 3:54 and I've been home for 15 minutes. In those 15 minutes, I've attempted to settle Claire in for a late afternoon nap, sorted the mail, let the dog out, started the dryer, emptied bottles and arranged them carefully on the top row of the dishwasher. I should change clothes and prepare for dinner, should tackle the bulging file folders in my school bag, should dig out coupons for the shopping trip I need to tackle when Jeff gets home, should start the myriad of small tasks associated with my sister's upcoming bridal shower and bachelorette party this weekend.
I should do all of my shoulds in the 15 minutes that follow this moment and the 15 minutes that follow that.
But I need to write.
I haven't blogged since I went back to school, though it's been on my list of things to do. I have a notepad scrawled with possible titles, jotted down as life and emotions hit. I blog in my head often, though those internal writings read more like a strand of Facebook status updates: "Some mornings, opening the car door in the school parking lot is the biggest challenge of the day" or "At times, I feel like the babysitter, not the mom" or "It's an odd, out-of-body-feeling opening your birthday presents with your daughter watching" or "I'm tired of poop. The literal, the metaphoric, the dog and the baby. My life is full of poop!" Part of the reason for "all quiet on the blog front" (Holy literary allusion!) is a packed schedule and overloaded brain but I have a feeling the silence is a little more complicated than that.
Perhaps it's that I don't want to read my thoughts or see my emotions so starkly placed in print.
Because putting them down - and out there - means acknowledging them fully. Sometimes that list of things to do is a convenient cover for the quiet heart tugs of the day -
I hate that my sitter (I hate that word) is the one to tell me what Claire is now doing in her day.
I died as I picked her up today and saw her become a little unnerved when I put her in the carseat. Died even more when her sitter's hand calmed her and not my own.
I feel a bit undone by the sweet picture my sitter's son made for Claire. Its bright flowers and message scrawled by five-year-old hands point to a life for Claire I don't know fully. I love her full face smile and her obvious delight in the day she shares with my sitter's children but I'm torn by the mystery that is my child's day.
I am happy when she visits morning library hour - yet my stomach wrenches each time I see that notation in the day's planner and imagine her eager little head and clapping hands, her bouncing bottom keeping time on someone else's lap.
I hate the up and down feelings that come in those first 15 minutes at home as I trade the world of teaching for the world of Mom.
I love our mornings, cuddled in bed, playing in the high chair, wrestling with clothes. 4:30-7 is a whirlwind of Mommy and Daddy and Baby time. I love the afternoons, witnessing the enthusiastic Baby and Dog reunion, playing on the floor, patting our way through books. I love the evenings, splashing at bathtime, rocking with the final bottle, relishing the sweet, drift-off-to-sleep-in-footy-pajamas-bedtime.
But I miss our days.
I think that's what pulls at my heart, what I've most avoided putting in print.
There's so much good in our life and I'm thankful for those blessings. Our daughter is growing and happy and active and confident and sweet and funny - really funny. We're making new memories each day as a family - and learning what it is to be a family. Life is really better than we could have ever imagined.
It's just that my heart plays tug-of-war a lot. Maybe that's what being a parent is all about?
It's now 4:35. My 15 minutes are way past up. There's a little girl upstairs who decided the afternoon nap wasn't for her. And we have a whole day to catch up on.
Glad I had a chance to write - here's hoping that I make it back to blog land soon. It feels pretty good here, typing away at the kitchen counter.
I should do all of my shoulds in the 15 minutes that follow this moment and the 15 minutes that follow that.
But I need to write.
I haven't blogged since I went back to school, though it's been on my list of things to do. I have a notepad scrawled with possible titles, jotted down as life and emotions hit. I blog in my head often, though those internal writings read more like a strand of Facebook status updates: "Some mornings, opening the car door in the school parking lot is the biggest challenge of the day" or "At times, I feel like the babysitter, not the mom" or "It's an odd, out-of-body-feeling opening your birthday presents with your daughter watching" or "I'm tired of poop. The literal, the metaphoric, the dog and the baby. My life is full of poop!" Part of the reason for "all quiet on the blog front" (Holy literary allusion!) is a packed schedule and overloaded brain but I have a feeling the silence is a little more complicated than that.
Perhaps it's that I don't want to read my thoughts or see my emotions so starkly placed in print.
Because putting them down - and out there - means acknowledging them fully. Sometimes that list of things to do is a convenient cover for the quiet heart tugs of the day -
I hate that my sitter (I hate that word) is the one to tell me what Claire is now doing in her day.
I died as I picked her up today and saw her become a little unnerved when I put her in the carseat. Died even more when her sitter's hand calmed her and not my own.
I feel a bit undone by the sweet picture my sitter's son made for Claire. Its bright flowers and message scrawled by five-year-old hands point to a life for Claire I don't know fully. I love her full face smile and her obvious delight in the day she shares with my sitter's children but I'm torn by the mystery that is my child's day.
I am happy when she visits morning library hour - yet my stomach wrenches each time I see that notation in the day's planner and imagine her eager little head and clapping hands, her bouncing bottom keeping time on someone else's lap.
I hate the up and down feelings that come in those first 15 minutes at home as I trade the world of teaching for the world of Mom.
I love our mornings, cuddled in bed, playing in the high chair, wrestling with clothes. 4:30-7 is a whirlwind of Mommy and Daddy and Baby time. I love the afternoons, witnessing the enthusiastic Baby and Dog reunion, playing on the floor, patting our way through books. I love the evenings, splashing at bathtime, rocking with the final bottle, relishing the sweet, drift-off-to-sleep-in-footy-pajamas-bedtime.
But I miss our days.
I think that's what pulls at my heart, what I've most avoided putting in print.
There's so much good in our life and I'm thankful for those blessings. Our daughter is growing and happy and active and confident and sweet and funny - really funny. We're making new memories each day as a family - and learning what it is to be a family. Life is really better than we could have ever imagined.
It's just that my heart plays tug-of-war a lot. Maybe that's what being a parent is all about?
It's now 4:35. My 15 minutes are way past up. There's a little girl upstairs who decided the afternoon nap wasn't for her. And we have a whole day to catch up on.
Glad I had a chance to write - here's hoping that I make it back to blog land soon. It feels pretty good here, typing away at the kitchen counter.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Only One Way Off This Ride
I'm cleaning closets like a madwoman.
I haven't really sat down in the past few days. I have an obsessive need to get things in order - the pantry, the dog's cabinet, my daughter's drawers. The garage. Our office. The front coat closet. That drawer where all the bills get tossed.
I'm compulsively making lists in my head and running around crossing off and adding things to notepads scattered throughout the house. Even when I slide into bed, my brain whirls with to-do's. I'm a busy woman - because I can't quite handle being the girl who cries.
The flurried activity in our home is a blatant attempt to ignore the calendar on our newly scoured refrigerator. Monday is a day away, the day when I go back to work and our daughter goes to an at-home daycare. I hate Monday.
We did a dry run earlier this week with an "immersion" experience of a few morning hours. She smiled at her caregiver, eagerly responded to her son and daughter and came home as happy as she left. In the weird-home-without-my-child-window, I made my husband tackle his closet and drawers, his loud complaints a welcome distraction from the somersaults my heart was doing in my chest. We survived the dress rehearsal and I'm preparing for the real deal. The lists are all in order. I just don't know if the emotions will follow the plan.
My friend, Sarah once compared the end of pregnancy to a roller coaster: once you're in it, there's only one way off, no matter how much you don't want to face what's coming. The same feeling holds true here; the up-the-hill clicking of the car is loud and rumbling and the fall is just around the corner, whether I want to face it or not.
At least I'm going to face it with one hell of a clean house.
I haven't really sat down in the past few days. I have an obsessive need to get things in order - the pantry, the dog's cabinet, my daughter's drawers. The garage. Our office. The front coat closet. That drawer where all the bills get tossed.
I'm compulsively making lists in my head and running around crossing off and adding things to notepads scattered throughout the house. Even when I slide into bed, my brain whirls with to-do's. I'm a busy woman - because I can't quite handle being the girl who cries.
The flurried activity in our home is a blatant attempt to ignore the calendar on our newly scoured refrigerator. Monday is a day away, the day when I go back to work and our daughter goes to an at-home daycare. I hate Monday.
We did a dry run earlier this week with an "immersion" experience of a few morning hours. She smiled at her caregiver, eagerly responded to her son and daughter and came home as happy as she left. In the weird-home-without-my-child-window, I made my husband tackle his closet and drawers, his loud complaints a welcome distraction from the somersaults my heart was doing in my chest. We survived the dress rehearsal and I'm preparing for the real deal. The lists are all in order. I just don't know if the emotions will follow the plan.
My friend, Sarah once compared the end of pregnancy to a roller coaster: once you're in it, there's only one way off, no matter how much you don't want to face what's coming. The same feeling holds true here; the up-the-hill clicking of the car is loud and rumbling and the fall is just around the corner, whether I want to face it or not.
At least I'm going to face it with one hell of a clean house.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The New Mile High Club
Well, I did it.
I tackled the airplane bathroom.
I successfully changed a poopy diaper - twice - all while scrunched into the inhabitable space that is an airplane bathroom.
Flying with our daughter for the first time was a source of restrained panic for us. We were prepared, having researched the airline's suggestions, consulted with our pediatrician and polled our friends for advice. We wanted to be progressive parents, easily flexible enough to take the challenges and nuances of air travel in stride. Freak about the uncontrollables? Not us. Our daughter is cosmopolitan enough to handle anything. A simple two hour trip at 7 months? Piece of cake.
Except for the inescapable worry that we would be that family. The family that causes an inward groan from all passengers as they board a flight. The family that has people clutching their tickets, praying they don't have seats anywhere near that baby. The family that everyone talks about at baggage claim and vents about in rides from the airport. The family of the - gasp! - screaming child.
The beautiful thing about babies is that they're just that: babies. They express themselves without restraint and are innocent, honest and pure. They're also terrifyingly free to do whatever they want or need to do at any given time. They can screech happily during church. They can exercise loud (and smelly) bodily functions during a party. They can have a meltdown at the grocery store. And they can cry on a crowded flight.
After all of the worry, our daughter did relatively well on her first flight experience. On the outbound flight, she decided to fill her diaper with about twenty minutes to go, just when the captain had illuminated the fasten seat belt light. Her relaxed emission prompted every mom in our area to check her child's diaper while we scurried to bury her in blankets, hoping to muffle the evidence. On the inbound flight, our exhausted child needed two changes and a some soothing before she could sleep. We thought she did remarkably well but my husband and brother came close to decking the annoyed businessman in front of us. At least she has personal bodyguards to defend her honor.
As the plane touched down at home, my husband looked at me with tired eyes and slowly extended his hand for a fatigued high-five. "Well, we did it. But you know what? We're driving to our next vacation."
No argument here.
I tackled the airplane bathroom.
I successfully changed a poopy diaper - twice - all while scrunched into the inhabitable space that is an airplane bathroom.
Flying with our daughter for the first time was a source of restrained panic for us. We were prepared, having researched the airline's suggestions, consulted with our pediatrician and polled our friends for advice. We wanted to be progressive parents, easily flexible enough to take the challenges and nuances of air travel in stride. Freak about the uncontrollables? Not us. Our daughter is cosmopolitan enough to handle anything. A simple two hour trip at 7 months? Piece of cake.
Except for the inescapable worry that we would be that family. The family that causes an inward groan from all passengers as they board a flight. The family that has people clutching their tickets, praying they don't have seats anywhere near that baby. The family that everyone talks about at baggage claim and vents about in rides from the airport. The family of the - gasp! - screaming child.
The beautiful thing about babies is that they're just that: babies. They express themselves without restraint and are innocent, honest and pure. They're also terrifyingly free to do whatever they want or need to do at any given time. They can screech happily during church. They can exercise loud (and smelly) bodily functions during a party. They can have a meltdown at the grocery store. And they can cry on a crowded flight.
After all of the worry, our daughter did relatively well on her first flight experience. On the outbound flight, she decided to fill her diaper with about twenty minutes to go, just when the captain had illuminated the fasten seat belt light. Her relaxed emission prompted every mom in our area to check her child's diaper while we scurried to bury her in blankets, hoping to muffle the evidence. On the inbound flight, our exhausted child needed two changes and a some soothing before she could sleep. We thought she did remarkably well but my husband and brother came close to decking the annoyed businessman in front of us. At least she has personal bodyguards to defend her honor.
As the plane touched down at home, my husband looked at me with tired eyes and slowly extended his hand for a fatigued high-five. "Well, we did it. But you know what? We're driving to our next vacation."
No argument here.
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