Moving, Part 1

So some of you are probably sick and tired of hearing about the fact that I’m moving.

But, hey…in case you haven’t heard…yes, we are moving back to Florida into the house that burned down and we rebuilt and yes, I guess Cooper is retiring and no, I’m not sure how we will get used to this heat, but at least we can now buy a pizza for less than $40.

That’s it, in a nutshell. I left my dear, sweet, most probably retired husband back in California to do the dirty work of dealing with the movers, and I chose to bring the girls home by myself to get them out of the way. I thought I was drawing the long straw on that one. Turns out, maybe not as long as I thought.

First, let me put this out there. Traveling with kids is not for the faint of heart. That ain’t no kind of secret. But I will admit that we have crossed into the promised land of iPad watching age which makes it almost bearable. Almost. So it should have been a tiring but rather uneventful day of sitting on a couple planes and allowing my kids to rot their eyes in front of Straw-ba-ba-ba-berry Shortcake. Not so much.

The short version is this: our first flight out was delayed 2 hours. LUCKILY, the sweet Lord had mercy on me and I received this call just as the bags were loaded into the car but before we left to take the 45 minute drive to the airport. I was beyond annoyed in my overly emotional state, but this, as it turned out was not by a long shot the most annoying event of the day. Anyway, went to the airport, had another half hour delay (no bigs at this point), then arrived in Dallas for a three hour layover that got pushed to over four.

Now, THIS–the indefinitely delayed flight–is what pushed me right over the ledge into irrational mom hysteria. And allow me to say, this particular time was NOT the most opportune time for an old crotchety lady to yell at my playing children, “CUT IT OUT RIGHT NOW KIDS!” Because let me tell you, when I’ve spent the last week prepping a house for a cross country move while saying goodbye to a life I loved and I’m exhausted in a crowded airport, carrying around three people’s backpacks, a lunch box, a heavily over loaded mom purse, I’ve changed two dirty diapers on the filthy floor of an airport, had a child wardrobe change in a public bathroom stall with toilet water spraying all over me, two kids and all our paraphernalia (it was Chinese contortion kind of stuff), walked twice across the terminals to the wrong gate to try and finagle three seats together on the flight for which, it turns out, I’m not even checked in (cue the unnecessary panic about the bags–OH MY GOD the car seats–not being there for our arrival when the whole airport is shut down at 1:00 am) AND to top it off, I have a bladder filled to capacity, I am NOT to be messed with.

Because at that moment, I can’t be responsible for my reaction to a person’s ass-ness. So, this mean old bitty yells at my girls (who, I will admit, were not sitting still like little angels, but they were playing not in an obnoxious manner either) and my pulse rate shoots up as though someone had punched me square in the face. I cut my eyes at that mean old lady and said aloud, “exCUSE me?!?” She then started back peddling and mumbling about how she was annoyed because she needed someone to push her in the wheelchair she was standing behind to gate C-7. My very first thought was, you know, I’m going to gate C-7 next, I could give her a push (because that’s what rational Suzy would have done). But then it was like I saw a fast motion flash of the shitty day I had and nope…I took the low road. Instead, I said to her, “you know what? Someone might be more likely to help you if you weren’t so mean to little children”. And I turned and walked away. But not before telling her, “you’re not the only one whose had a long day. It’s been a long day for them too”.

Those of you who know me know that I don’t take shit from my kids. I’m on them like white on rice if I think they are up to no good. But God help the person who tries to step in and do my job for me. I’ll be up in your grill whether you’re Mother Theresa, Buzz Aldrin or Mike Tyson. Because, as my three year old will tell you, I do Body Pump. And as far as she’s concerned, that makes me a total bad ass.

So the end to this story is that we all sat together in the last row of the plane, we arrived cross eyed at 12:50 am, got off the tram at the completely empty airport to see my mom, two sisters and 5 year old nephew with a big poster and balloons welcoming us home. It was complete with dramatic leaps across the carpet performed by my 38 year old sister in celebration of our arrival. And that was the best part of the whole day.

Footnotes:

Rude ass men of the world: it won’t kill you to let a frazzled mom with lots of luggage and two rowdy, excited kids to hop in front of you in the security line so she can set her stuff down on the belt. Just keep that in mind. You can’t die of politeness and compassion. It’s not possible. Quit acting like it is.

McDonald’s workers: Newsflash…the cost of the ketchup packets does not get electronically deducted from your bank account. Don’t be so offended when I ask for it.

Steve Jobs: rest in peace you freaking genius. I hope you are getting extra heavenly rewards for inventing iPads. On behalf of traveling mothers around the world, I thank you for your contribution to our sanity.