Ooof, I just looked at this post. It’s really long.  Here’s the thumbnail version:  I stayed in a cabin on the beach. There happened to be cockroaches in the cabin. I did not like it AT ALL, but in the end, I forgive the beach. Oh yes, I forgive the beach.

Here I am, on a Wednesday, as usual, ready to sit down and write about my latest life revelation… kidding. Yes, I have had several, and the only people more tired of that than me is probably you.  So! Instead! I also just remembered that this time about ten days ago, I was on my seventeen billionth drink of the day, right in front of my mother, because I had slept outside on the beach all night in intermittent rain. And got eaten by mosquitoes and, I’m certain, no less than 400 other kinds of sand-dwelling bugs throughout the night.

So let me back up. A couple weeks ago, my mother and I took a trip to the Virgin Islands. It’s no secret around here that I have a slight addiction and it’s sort of my Life List to get everyone I know and love down there with me at some point in my life, both individually and as one huge-ass group. But, in all the times I’ve visited over the years, my mother has never been along for the ride. The furthest into the Caribbean we’ve gone together was the Bahamas, and that happened to be during spring break (I was already past the “spring break! wooo!” age)  and I was pretty sure at that point my mother thought every beach bar was only about getting drunk and seeing who could dance on the bar first.  (Okay, so she isn’t too far off on that one.)

Nonetheless, we finally got to take our trip a couple weeks ago, and as part of my wanting to try to pack multiple experiences into eight days, I asked her if she’d be up for staying in a beach cabin for a night or two. She was.  I went to every length I could to tell her how this “cabin” would be: real beds, refrigerator, electricity, no A/C, screens, slight breeze, steps from the beach, etc.  Very basic, but livable, especially for just a couple days.  She, surprisingly, was up for it.

We arrived on the island at about noon, dropped our things in our beach cabin, and went out to explore (read: immediately find all of my favorite bartenders and friends).  We then came back to the cabin, showered, changed, and went to the barbecue at the beach bar just steps from where our cabin was.  It’s a heck of a set up, right?  There is never a moment wherein I forget just how blessed I am to experience these things.  And while we’re at it, if you’ve never attended a traditional Caribbean beach bar-type barbecue, get that on your Life List as soon as possible. Unless you hate amazing food. And people. And laughter. And music. And pretty much all good things in this world. Do it, immediately.

After we were stuffed full with fish, ribs, chicken, and seven million traditional side dishes, we slowly shuffled our way back to our cabin, still hearing the music of the barbecue along with the soft waves on the beach in the background. It couldn’t have been more perfect sleeping conditions, and with just 3 hours of sleep the night before, I could not wait to sleep. I unlock the cabin door, step inside, flip on the light, walk about two steps to put my bottled water in the fridge, look down at one of the beds, and see the biggest @#$%! cockroach I have ever seen in my life.  Okay, deep breath. Don’t make mom panic.  “Um, what is that?” I ask, hoping I am hallucinating.

I can handle a lot of things, I KNOW bugs and critters come with the territory in the tropics. It’s a fact of life. Geckos, mosquitoes, sand fleas, and yes, even cockroaches happen. That’s how it is.  But, Lord help me, I cannot bear the thought of sleeping among cockroaches. So I breathe deeper.

“It’s definitely a cockroach,” my mom says, and so I freak out a little, try to kill it, of course miss and don’t kill it at all, and now it’s under the bed.  Okay, well it can run away. It will go out. There’s just one.

Except, no.

There’s not just one. I go over to my bag, to pull out my clothes, and there’s more.  THERE’S LIKE FIVE MORE.  And if I were the kind of person that used expletives on her blog, this is where you’d see a lot of EXPLETIVES ON THIS BLOG.  I couldn’t take it, people.  And although she was much more calm than me, my mother couldn’t take it either.  Then, I remembered!  This wasn’t my first time in a beach cabin, and I knew just what to do!  Several years ago I stayed in a beach cabin with friends while on a trip to Hawaii. Hawaii, also the tropics, also no stranger to the cockroach. And, yes, they were in the cabin.  Our solution? Sleep with the lights on. Cockroaches scatter when exposed to light. They do not like it. And in Hawaii, that solution worked.

So then that was going to be our solution here, too. We would just keep the light on.  Okay, fine. So we clean out every last corner of our bags, shake out every piece of clothing, reseal it all, and get ready for bed.  Just as we think we’ll maybe get some sleep tonight, THE [EXPLETIVE] POWER GOES OUT. ON THE WHOLE [EXPLETIVE] ISLAND.

Seriously? Yes, seriously.

By some miracle of intelligence, I had brought flashlights on this little adventure, so I got them out immediately, in the dark, feeling like things were crawling on me the entire time, and there my mom and I sat, staring at each other, sitting on the ends of our beds, flashlights in hand, wondering what we were going to do next.  By this time, the music has ended. People are stumbling to their beds, and on and island of only a few hundred people, and at past 10:00 p.m., we were out of luck.  There was going to be no one to help us figure out what do to. We had to be our own heroes. And so we sat.

I knew, because of past experiences with power outages on this island, that not only was this the usual, but the idea of the power coming back on that night was a pipe dream. Yes, there are some generators, but not here and certainly not on order at 10:00 p.m. for two women who are gagging themselves over the sight of some measly bugs.  And yes, I know some people would have just gotten over it, but I couldn’t, we couldn’t. I knew just how many cockroaches I’d seen, and that thought wasn’t going to leave my mind that night, or ever.

Finally my mom looks at me, stands up, and says “Get your sheet and pillow, we’re going to the beach.” The thought had crossed my mind, sure. My first instinct was to get the heck out of there. But I knew what waited in the sand, too. All those other creatures I’d mentioned, the sand fleas, the MOSQUITOES, they were all out there waiting, too.  But, what choice did we have?  I couldn’t stay up through another night, and I’d sooner die than sleep in pool of cockroaches, and so we sprayed ourselves down in bug spray, wrapped ourselves in our sheets like burritos, and tried to sleep on two chaise lounge chairs just a few feet from the ocean.

It sounds kind of nice, right? Kind of fun, adventurous even, right? And I guess it was. I mean, there were some light intermittent rain storms, and yes, there were bugs, and that beach was desserted as I often find myself wishing every beach were.  The only light were two or three mast lights reflecting in the bay, and the bright, bright moon when a rain cloud wasn’t blocking it. It was nice. But it was also pretty rough, and unplanned, and would have been a lot better had I had a really strong drink before heading out there.

We made it through the night though, and as usual, I ended up with all the mosquito bites and again only about 3 hours of sleep.  A little later in the morning, we walked down the beach, and my favorite beach bartender and friend put his arm around me and said “You look like you had a rough night.” I looked up at him and said “cockroaches” which is how just ten days ago at this time, I was on my seventeen billionth drink of the day, right in front of my mother, because I’d slept outside on the beach all night in intermittent rain.

We moved into a real room, sans bugs, the following night.  I do not blame the island, nor the cabin owners, nor the people that have stayed there cockroach-free in the past. I only blame myself, my wimpy, wimpy self.

The End.  THE [EXPELTIVE] END.

Apparently I’d forgotten I have a blog all week. Other than my crazy love tirade, the entire week has passed yet again before I knew it. I feel like I need a break and have no good reason for it.

This being a holiday week and weekend, a lot of people might already consider themselves on a break. But, when we’re talking this kind of break there’s never really a bad time for it. I think you’ll know what I mean.

Come with me and enjoy a short but lovely 19 seconds at sunset, below:

Boatin’ at sunset from Lesley G on Vimeo.

Big thanks to my friends Deb and Jay! They know what it’s all about.

It was my full intention, laptop in hand (read: carry-on) as I boarded the plane, to keep up with blog posting while I was away last week. And I did do that. For one day. Thank you. That was Friday the 22nd, and oh, look here we are over a week later and I am finally finding it in me to catch up. And if this were Twitter, I would end that statement with a hashtag something like #geewherehaveweheardthisbefore, because we most definitely have heard this before.

It’s just that I have such an easy tiiimmme unplugging, you know?  Yeah, I know, your heart breaks for me. Moving right along.  Because this trip, though somewhat planned, turned out to be even so much more than I knew. And I want to retell it. In parts.  You’re welcome.

The Point of the Trip

Now then, the point of the trip itself: Operation Sneak Onto An Island. I actually didn’t call it that, but I should have, because that’s what I had to do. And the whole point of that was that two friends of mine, I’d call them island friends, although they live stateside most of the time like me, you, and the rest of us that freeze several months out of the year. But I met my friends on the island, and therefore they are island friends. And they were having an anniversary celebration, complete with a vow renewal ceremony. Because they were married there, and they wanted to celebrate there, ten years later. (And those last several sentences, and likely those that follow, would give my college English professors a heart attack.)

My friends, the ones having an anniversary, were celebrating on Friday the 22nd, and they invited me months and months ago, when I was still employed and restricted from vacation time (ah, those were the days!), and basically had zero hope of being able to attend. It was a sad thing when I had to turn down that invite. But! Then I quit my job, and became a full-time, temporary loafer, so no longer was I tied down.  Combine that with an unheard of low fare alert I received just a few weeks before the actual date of the event and a couple of other veerrrryy generous friends who allow me to bunk with them more often than I deserve, and the surprise covert operation was a done deal.

Keeping this secret was so difficult for me. It meant not saying anything on my blog, and therefore Twitter, or Facebook or to any mutual friends (minus a few in on the covert operation). A little reaffirmed fact about me: I can keep a “bad” secret with me until death, but ask me to keep a fun secret and I am impossible. But when I got to show up and surprise my friends, and then be a part of their celebration, it was worth it.

It was the home of these same friends I brought my friends down to stay in back in October for my 30th birthday, you might remember, and well, just like the island itself, it can be a magical place.

It was a beautiful celebration in a beautiful place, and I’m certainly better for having been part of it, not to mention friends with all these wonderful people whom I met completely by timing and chance.

Speaking of Timing and Chance

Here’s where the story gets even more interesting.

I arrived on the island the night before my friends’ celebration, which meant that all of the 21st I was either in an airport or on a plane. Somewhere between 10 and a billion hours of voluntary torture is what it takes to get down to the Caribbean from the Western U.S., and my lands as worth it as it is, it kicks your ass. There is no other way to put that, it just plain kicks your ass. And because of my secret, I couldn’t complain about any of it on the Internet. I know, right?!

On the last leg of my trip, in the Miami airport (which, in my opinion, has not moved out of the category of AWFUL in over a decade) I collapsed on a vinyl chair and drank what was probably my fiftieth caffeinated beverage of the day. A couple sat down next to me along with another man, and before long I saw that they were smart, because they were drinking beer. We started chatting, and I’d noticed the girl had a long garment bag with her, which could only mean one thing: Island Wedding.

Soon we found out we were not only on the same flight but sitting in the same row on the plane, where I did join in the beer drinking after all. We talked about the islands, about weddings, about love, about life. It was great. And I only had one beer, so I know it really must have all been real.

I also know it was real because at this point, I know that’s just how things happen in the islands. It just is. Whether you’re there, on your way, or somewhere in between, when that place is involved I’m telling you, good things and good people just come into the picture. I can’t explain it, I don’t necessarily want to, but I know it’s true. So when the happy couple, who I’d learned were actually eloping, asked me to take photos of their wedding, I was not entirely surprised. Shocked? Yes. Intimidated? Yes. Questioning their sobriety? Yes.

Long story short, though, they were sober, I was sober, and I went out two days later and photographed their very beautiful, very quiet, very perfect island wedding ceremony. We sailed to a small island, just the couple, the captain and his first mate, and me.  It was a beautiful day, and I was grateful for the invite.  And that day, I also got to put “Photographer” in the field for occupation on a customs form, which was a highlight I won’t soon forget.

Serendipitous, I tell you.

Stranded in the Islands

Three days later, after beaching and hiking and generally finding absolutely nothing to complain about all day every day, it was time for my quick trip to end.  I woke up at five in the morning, my friend (bless her!) drove me across the island, I caught a ferry, caught a taxi, went through customs, and ended up in the airport. Kids, it is a long day just getting to the airport, and you’re not even on the plane yet.

I’ve tried various ways of explaining this next part, but I can’t seem to do it better than I did in the emails I sent to a couple friends when they asked, paraphrased, HOW THE HELL DO YOU GET STUCK IN THE TROPICS? My response, below:

The plane I was supposed to leave on broke, something about a cooling fan, so they couldn’t go anywhere (fine by me, the pilot says no and I’m totally cool with that, right?) but the thing is, to even get to the airport I have to take a car ride across the island, then a ferry, then a taxi from the dock to the airport, and then deal with customs, which is fake as compared to most customs, but nonetheless, customs, and then sit in an airport with, literally, no PA system (at least one that can be heard). IF YOU CAN IMAGINE.

So, when someone says the flight’s not leaving and they’ll either book you on a later one (maybe) or one the following day it’s like, um, NO, because what you went through just to get there (not to mention packing up the flip-flops and breaking out the parka) is just not worth going all the way back for 12 hours. So, since I was going to be coming back anyway, I demanded it be at least a 48-hour extension.  And by “demanded” I mean spoke very kindly, smiled, and observed all cultural and customary manners. Ha.

And that’s how I got to spend a couple more days “stranded” in the Caribbean. I was staying with friends, so they gladly took me back in. Which is something I will never figure out as long as I live, how I got friends such as these. Crazy. Serendipitous. All of it.

The End.

Until next month.

This Year I’m thankful for growth, love, peace in my heart, perspective, family, friends, health, and reflection.

This Month I’m thankful for support, encouragement, change, anticipation, my body, my mind.

This Week I’m thankful for the sun, sweaters, music, and plans.

Today I’m thankful for rest, communication with friends, connection, and hope.

In this very moment I’m thankful to realize I have it, why I have it, and what a miracle that really is.

And always, I’m thankful for the people I get to share parts of my life with right here on this site. It’s something that’s never less than important to me, and I thank you for spending your valuable time here, with me for a few minutes.

For the next few days, to round out this November of daily posts, I’m going to be sharing only photos. So much goes by in a year, and as someone who takes thousands of photos, I want to share a few.

Oh, and I’m also pretty thankful for her, my current and constant foot warmer:

Oh, yeah. Never mind. I remember now.

____________________________________

Also, just a note to the person who’s started stealing the photos from this blog: We caught you. Again. Yes, again. And we’ve contacted you, and you’ve taken down the photos you stole, and now you’re being investigated for possibly trying to sell those photos, along with others you’ve stolen. And you’re probably being sued by, like, five people. So stop it.

A note to anyone else looking to steal photos from this blog: They are mine, I took them, I posted them. Don’t steal them, or I will find you. And trust me, I have way too much time on my hands these days to go easy on you.

If there’s anything I’ve learned about myself and procrastinating is that I worry about ten times more than I need to. For instance, right now I’m sitting at my kitchen table, still in my yoga clothes, drinking coffee and I haven’t packed a thing for a one week trip. And my flight leaves in mere hours. But there is a pile of clothes on the floor, and I know eventually they’ll make it into a bag and out the door and everything will be just fine. If only everything in life were so easy to prepare for as a trip to the tropics. Minimal clothing, and the matchy-matchy among us need not apply.

Instead, I’m sitting here in a house that really needs to be cleaned before I go, sheets that need to be changed, and looking around at a life that really could use more organization and I’m thinking I could possibly be the luckiest person I know.  And, oh boy, do I know.

For one thing, I know all the best people. From everyone to my family who’s taught me about loving me for who I am to my friends that I can call or email at any time, even if it’s just to tell them about the really loud person in the bathroom stall next to me. (It was bad, guys. Real bad.) And I don’t know about you but I think if there are two things everyone should be able to knock off their life list it’s unconditional love and sharing dramatic bathroom experiences.

That luck extends for what feels like forever, especially when it comes to this site here.  I know there’s plenty of room to argue this, but the Internet, to me, is magical. And by magical I mean because of it I am sent things from far far away just because. That makes me so happy.  Well, that and somehow I seem to have a temporary hiatus from the blacklist of the Canadian postal service— I actually received a parcel (like how I translated there?) in less than two weeks.  I am in awe.

Barb sent me two mixed CD’s last week, and I swear I both screamed and wept in joy. A woman should not have to wait nearly thirty years for a damned mixed tape CD, I tell you! And by waiting thirty years for a mixed tape, I am clearly ruling out the one you recorded yourself in your parent’s basement with a Wal-Mart keyboard and a guitar with four strings, junior high boyfriend.  Adorable? Yes. Memorable? Not in a good way.

It doesn’t stop there— I’ve gotten cards and emails from several very kind, incredible people I’ve gotten to know through this blog and as strange as it may sound, all the commiseration and encouragement and love from people [most of which] I’ve never known in person assures me that though nothing is quite how I expected, I’m not alone in this. That’s a beautiful thing.

Later today I’ll be piling in a car, and then on a plane, and then on another plane, and then on a boat, and then… okay, there will be a lot of piling… with a few of my best friends and staring down my thirtieth birthday with only the most anticipation and gratitude.  I know it’s eye roll-inducing to say, but everything feels very, very right.

I have: best friends, perfect moments, hard times, a wonderful family, a good dog, ten pounds to lose, a tendency to split infinitives, student loans, long hair, expensive hobbies, a love for running, a cluttered kitchen counter, love, a job I’m not in love with, a coffee addiction, a scarf addiction, dreams I cannot afford, goals I cannot afford, people I cannot live without, and all the luck in the world.

All of it.

Today was a perfect fall day. The kind where you need a sweatshirt, but the sun is warm. The sky was perfectly clear and blue and I couldn’t help but be out in it.  Then again, a lot of that is because I know exactly what this means: tomorrow, we freeze.

That is always how the fall days go here. They are perfect, they are warm, they are brief. And instead of a gentle shove into the next season, instead of a day or two of transition, the following day is just plain cold. We all complain about it, even the people that like the snow. Even the people that consider winter their playground. It simply hits too fast and too hard and if you’re not holding on [to a ticket to the tropics] that day will take you out.

Tomorrow, in all likelihood, will be that day. Not because it will be the coldest day of the year, not because we don’t know it’s coming. It’s that today was overly nice. So nice that if you didn’t know Colorado fall better, you’d think she were being fake, telling you she liked your hair and the way it shines in the afternoon sun when really, it is a trap. A trap I fall for every year.

One of the best things about having gone through this year after year, though, is experience. There are tools to get you through, tools that range from the simple to the outright panic. There are people that feel like winter is good for them, restful, restorative.  I am not one of them.  I need reminders that it’s temporary. I need reminders that just because it’s cold and icy and windy and cruel it does not mean I need to refuse to function in every day life. I need help.

I like to start with the simple.  Like this Santa Fe sunset:

It starts with the sun just beginning to graze the horizon, illuminating everything it touches in a soft golden glow.

Soon, though, it hits that horizon and as if a switch has been flipped, that soft golden glow turns dark.

That golden ball sinks into the orange horizon, and for these few, fleeting moments, you have clear and total evidence that, yes, this Earth is turning.

It’s sort of sad but at the same time comforting to see your day end in only the best way possible, knowing you got through the entire thing, somehow.

It was like any other day, or it was all it’s own, and yet you said hello and goodbye to it— even if you didn’t realize it at the time.

You watch that sun set for you, just as it rose for you, and maybe you catch yourself wondering what it will bring tomorrow.

And just as you’re staring at that last bit, you breathe in and feel like you need to hang on just for a minute more. It’s there, just barely, winking at you and reminding to take this moment in.

Just as that last bit of light shines, just as you think it’s over, the sky gets a little brighter  to let you know it’ll be back soon.

Because that’s the way it is.

So you think to yourself that maybe if you’re lucky, and if you’re smart, you’ll get up again too.

]]> http://justrunjustlivejustbe.com/2009/10/07/the-story-of-how-a-single-sunset-may-get-a-person-through-an-entire-winter/feed/ 11 http://justrunjustlivejustbe.com/2009/10/04/pay-no-attention-to-the-man-behind-the-curtain/ http://justrunjustlivejustbe.com/2009/10/04/pay-no-attention-to-the-man-behind-the-curtain/#comments Mon, 05 Oct 2009 02:15:54 +0000 LesleyG http://justrunjustlivejustbe.com/?p=1424

You know it’s a weird day when you run a race that takes you a mile up a stream in nearly waist-deep water at points, then edit photos you took that look like a dream but no, you were actually there, then get the news that your favorite uncle has been diagnosed with prostate cancer but they’re informing everyone in the fashion you would if you were saying “I got a new puppy.” “I have prostate cancer. It’s going to be a little tough at first, but things are looking good.” Because apparently there is a good kind of prostate cancer to have.

The fact that we even live in a world where there are “good cancers” leaves me without words. How do you comprehend that? Good cancer. Because, yes, that is good for the person you love, and it is positive, but it is still cancer. &^%$#@! cancer. It pisses me off. Daily.

But unlike me my family is so incredibly level-headed, if not at first then later.  And while I’m over here pissed off they are educated and have a plan and somehow find it in themselves to tell me how it’s all going to be okay.

And they are right, I know they are right. So in the meantime I will provide distraction.  I’m really good at that, providing distraction. Want to sneak out of a party unnoticed, I will drop a glass. Want no one to notice you put salt instead of sugar in the peanut butter cookies? I will spill coffee all over them. True stories. I distract like no one’s business.

Here we have no boring parties to leave for better parties, or delicious-looking yet salted cookies to ruin, and so I’ll settle for pictures instead.

Santa Fe, New Mexico, September 2009

I cannot lie, traveling with children was every bit as challenging as I thought it would be.  Or more so. It has taken me three days, and several pots of coffee just to feel like I’ve caught up with life, muchless recovered. But it wasn’t tiring in the ways I thought it would be, which is to say I wasn’t frazzled or harried, irritated or stressed.

I was transported.

I know, I know. It sounds cheesy and ridiculous and you may even not believe me.  Because, more than likely, you’ve traveled with children and, therefore, you know the real truth. But I’m telling you, it was wonderful and it was real.

Already a week ago today, I picked up my cousins on their door step and brought them to my house for the night to prepare for an early flight. I barely slept that night, afraid of not waking up on time and missing our 6:00 a.m. flight. And beyond that, I was nervous for things to go well.  Not go well in the sense of on-time flights, nervous in the sense that I was just certain at some point in the four days someone was going to a) throw up, b) miss their mommy, c) get lost, d) throw up, or e) throw up. From the moment I woke them up at 4:00 in the morning, telling them it was time to go to the airport, they were wired.

They were wired the entire time, really. Mostly because they are so young. I expected that.  What I hadn’t quite comprehended is how wired you must be, at any age, when you are flying on a plane for the first time. When you’re in a rental car for the first time. When you’re in a hotel for the first time. When you see the beach FOR THE FIRST TIME. I expected excitement, interest, enthusiasm even.  What I didn’t expect was the sheer fascination, and the way it would completely grab me right along with them.

That was the tiring part, the part where I’d experienced everything before, and yet was getting to experience it for the first time. Sure, there were times when I had to remind them to use inside voices, but I also had to remind myself that those voices, those reactions, were raw and genuine. And once I got used to it, it was all I could do to not join in with them. Saturday we spent the entire day at the beach, and although everyone knows I’m gratefully no stranger to that, it was brand new at the same time. I had honestly forgotten how incredible the waves are, the stinging taste of saltwater, as they just keep rolling in and out again and again.

For that, I owe my cousins. I am so thankful for this experience, for them teaching me the value in the strange, the frightening, and the new. For reminding me of the lure of adventure and that sometimes, it is perfectly okay to scream out loud when you’re happy.

For them, I pledge to not forget that. I will not forget to be amazed. I will take in my environment. I will find amusement in subtle things. I will be fascinated by seaweed and riding in the front seat. I will complain when it’s time to go to bed, rather than wish I were already in it. I will eat ice cream. I will remember what it feels like to have someone adore me for exactly who I am and assure me that I, in fact, am very cool.

Whenever I’m traveling, I look around at people traveling with children and think… well, I don’t really think, actually. I just shrink away and hide. It stresses me out to think about it. While not having any children of my own, I have lived enough of life to know that even leaving the house with children can be a production. They need things. And stuff. And lots of it. So when people attempt to leave the city, or the state, or the country with kids, I don’t understand it. How do they manage? How do they remember everything? How do they plan? HOW DO THEY MAINTAIN THEIR SANITY? It scares me.

In spite of all this, however, tomorrow I’m going to face one of my fears and leave, out of the city, out of state, on a plane, on my own, with two children. As I type this now, I can feel my nerves standing on end. Instead of being the innocent bystander, watching the either well-oiled or chaotic machine that is a traveling family, I will be that. I will be the woman with not enough hands, dropping things, hitting you in the head with a backpack as I walk down the aisle, all the while not using my inside voice, no doubt.

These kids though, these boys, they are so worth it. I’ve written about them a few times before, and most recently when they tried to school me on the basketball court. No matter how fast they get older (and, my gosh, it is fast) and how smart they think they are, I adore them. They are so much fun. So when the opportunity came along that I could do something for them—something really great—I took it.

Aside from a little freaking out about the traveling and the keeping track of children, and not being able to just fall asleep on a random airport chair like I do when I’m traveling alone, I cannot wait. We’re headed to the West coast, wherein we’ll schlep too much stuff around, pose for photos like tourists, pay too much for bad food, and exhaust ourselves. It should be nothing short of magical.

So if you see a woman, traveling with two kids that don’t look like her, and she’s a little stressed, and looks like she’s perhaps wearing a baseball cap for the third day in a row, and she accidentally hits you in the head with a backpack, be kind to her, to them.  They are embarking on a lot of First Times. Like seeing the ocean. Like flying on a plane. Like trying to not lose someone else’s child in an international airport.