Fall is in the air

So, Fall has always been my favorite season.  The crisp air, the fragrant bouquet of sharpened #2 pencils, apple cider, jumping in leaves, college football.  It's always been a great time of year... until, for whatever reason, the last few years, when Fall has done nothing but remind me that Winter is on its way.  That bitch.

It's been a particularly wet year around here.  Spring brought about many sleepless nights for my husband, who, with harrowing flashbacks to (as his family affectionately calls it) The Great Flood of 1988, would run to our basement to make sure our sump pump was doing its job.

Fall has been no exception.  It seemed every day has been cold and wet lately.  So much so that I was almost praying for winter because, at the very least, snow is pretty to look at.  From afar.  Far far afar.

Last weekend, we received a reprieve from the rain.  It was the picture of autumn perfection - blue skies, crisp air, the scent of burning something or other (hopefully not someone's house) in the air.  So, we decided to seize the day, do something fallish.  Be proper parents and give the boys good memories of their childhood (although I remember nothing of the fun events my mother planned for us as children - wait what?  I didn't say that.).  Apple picking!  Pumpkin patch!  Corn maze!  Something they can't blame me for later ("You ruined my life!  You didn't take me to the pumpkin patch!"). 

My brother has been working out east and knew of an area that boasted of corn mazes/pumpkin patches/apple pickings.  So, the 4 of us, plus our 4 children, made the hour drive to this blessed area.

Children:  Are we there yet?
Me:  No.
Children:  Arrrrrggghhh.  

Only one child fell asleep on the trip.   

We got to the apple picking farm and found it deserted.  It was open, right?  It was a beautiful fall day, why wasn't this place swarming with apple pickers?

Turns out we missed peak apple picking season.  The place had been hit hard by the rain, and, to add to that, most of the trees had already been picked through.  But, we put on our rain boots and trudged out there anyway.  Got some great pictures of the kids picking from the trees ("See?  We went apple picking when you were little!").  The man told the children not to pull, but to push up and twist (in case you were hoping to gain apple picking instructions from this story - you're welcome).  They listened.  Sort of.  After we filled 2 large plastic bags with, um, not very pretty-looking apples (which my brother ate directly from the tree - they were delicious [and he, luckily, didn't die from any germs]) and grabbed a bag of caramel corn (Love. Fall.), we left for the corn maze.

This place had everything.  Corn maze!  Pumpkin patch!  Hay rides!  Petting zoo!  I was pumped.  I was ready.  Bring on the maze!

Brother:  Short, middle or long maze?
Me (thinking of the child I would, no doubt, be carrying through most of it):  Short.

I was overruled.  Which, fine.  If we were going to do this, let's Do.  This.

It started out well enough.  The brother was elected Map Reader, the sister-in-law chased the children, the children ran, the husband snapped pictures, I posted funny status updates on Facebook ("We're lost."  Heh.).  We were having fun.

But this maze was over 3 miles long.  The fun couldn't last.

About a quarter of the way through, I had a 4-year-old attached to my hip.  I was getting a blister from the boots I had never worn before (had I not learned the "break in shoes before wearing" rule yet?).  I had taken off my fleece jacket.  I was holding 2 other people's jackets.  Along with aforementioned 4-year-old.  One child had stripped himself of almost all his clothes.  (Perhaps it wasn't the crispest fall day of the year.  It was downright balmy.  Who's idea was this?)

Me (dragging whiny 4-year-old):  Are we there yet?
Brother:  No.
Me:  Arrrrrggghhh.

But, it was damfun.  I love this crap.

After the maze, we went on a hay ride up the hill to the petting zoo.  The kids had a great time holding bunnies (on sale for $5!  Or, 5 minutes later, 2 for $5!), petting horses, running atop hay stacks.  We then made our way down the hill and climbed even more haystacks.  A child (not one of ours) pushed another child (one of ours) off the hay.

Other child's mother:  You can't push people like that.  That's not your cousin.
Me:  ?

We took another hay ride to the pumpkin patch and picked our annual pumpkins.  By then, we were all spent.  On our hour-long ride home, I called my mother to make sure she was making us all dinner.

She was.

My faith in fall had been restored!

Until this morning.

Weatherman:  Snow snow snow.
Me:  Is it Spring yet?
Weatherman:  Ha!
Me:  Arrrrrggghhh.

The good ol' days... for a night, anyway

So, we went to a wedding this past weekend for one of my college roommates.  I had been looking forward to it for weeks.  I hardly see my college friends anymore, with life always getting in the way.  Plus, the wedding was out of town and the boys stayed with my parents for the night.  Why, yes.  Yes, I will have another drink!

My college friends are great.  They are just as fun as they were when we were living together.  I am not very good (read:  I SUCK) at keeping in touch with people.  It's safe to say my BFF and I wouldn't be friends at all if she didn't work as hard as she does to keep us together.  (She probably secretly hates me because of that, but I love her for pretending she doesn't.)  I don't always know what's going on with everyone, so this wedding was a good way to play catch-up. 

If I were to ever crazy disciplined enough to write a book, it would revolve around some kind of reunion.  The entire story would take place over an evening or a weekend.  Or a wedding, like this one.  Having the history we do with each other, it's scary interesting to see how we'd interact now with the ones who knew us long ago, saw us at our dumbest, and (shudder) remember the things we'd rather forget.

College was an interesting time for us.  We were young and dumb, and liked to have fun.  We were on our own for the first time in our lives.  We didn't have to go to class if we didn't want.  We could stay out all night.  We could sleep all day.  Lucky for me, I had pretty disciplined roommates.  They went to class, they studied.  They made sure I went to class and studied by making me feel guilty that they went to class and studied - I couldn't very well use "Days of Our Lives" a legitimate excuse to miss class.  In turn, I made sure they were fed.  We had messy, sometimes drunken, arguments about each other or boys or dirty dishes.  I remember, one time, my one roommate refused to clean a pot (or forgot it was hers).  As the cleaner, it killed me to have that pot sitting there.  But, I had to see how long it would take before someone (read: not me) did something about it.  In the end, the pot transformed into something we had to donate to science.

These people know me and I know them.  They remember the time I was pulled over for running a stop sign (and got out of a ticket).  Drunk (and still got out of the ticket).  (This never happened, by the way.)  (Although, I was an excellent drunk driver.)  I remember the months my roommate obsessed about the same boy (whom she, luckily, ended up marrying).  Or the times I wrote papers for my friends because I liked it and could do it in an evening.  And (pat on back) get them an A.  Or that I would rap to 2Pac and Biggie Smalls and not be at all embarrassed about the fact that I was a skinny white girl listening to gangsta rap in my 1989 Mercury Topaz.  Or realize that we know the creator of Silly Bandz.  And remember that our idea of cardio consisted of going out dancing 3 nights a week.  Or that I ordered 2 hard tacos and an order of nachos from Taco Bell at 2am every Thursday night.   

And now, here we are, all of us married, most of us with kids.  How will we be able to look at these children, knowing what we know?  How does my wonderfully adorable roommate, who could only contribute a jar of pickles to our pantry every month, have 3 children?  How do I sing nursery rhymes to my children without throwing out the f bomb or talking about popping a cap in yo ass?  Why won't I allow my kids to eat something that fell on my kitchen floor, that I clean daily, but let my BFF eat a piece of pizza that she dropped in the street?

And, true to our nature, our old selves reemerged on Saturday.  I was out on the dance floor, dancing and rapping to Nelly.  One roommate was drunk on dirty martinis (okay, that's new - we drank cheap beer back in the day) and "I love you"ing everyone.  One friend was crying the whole evening because she was drunk so happy for all of us who were married with children.  The bride and groom supplied us with a photo booth at the reception to make fools of ourselves capture the evening... and we took full advantage of it.

In my Great American Novel, though, there'd have to be more than just fun drunken times (that are now forever captured in hundreds of hilariously posed photos).  There'd have to be some drama, some intrigue.  Like one of the girls brings another's ex-boyfriend as her guest.  Or one of the bridesmaids is actually a spy and the bad guy is a guest at the wedding.  There could be a shoot-out at the reception, during a 2Pac song (and most guest would think it was just a part of the song), and the spy, in her cinnamon colored organza bridemaid's dress (with matching heels) effectively captures the bad guy.  And the ex-boyfriend, after getting in the line of fire to protect his ex, realizes life is short and wins the ex back.  And they live happily ever after.  After a trip to the hospital to stitch him up.

Hmm.  Makes the real wedding seem kind of boring after that.
   

Namaste

So, I finally took a real yoga class this week.  I’ve been practicing yoga for a couple years now.  And by “practicing”, I mean, "attempting yoga poses through various videos, Wii Fit and P90X".  I actually think I’ve gotten pretty good with the P90X one.  The first time I did it?  I cried at the end.  That was either a good or bad sign.

But, because I never had any formal training, I was afraid I was doing the poses incorrectly (although the computerized Wii Fit trainer told me I did a great job).  So, I’ve always wanted to take a class.  My cousin is a yoga instructor and gave me the name of a woman on my side of town to try. 

2 years ago.

But, because I’m a big baby social, I wanted to take this class with a friend.  I begged pleaded with implored suggested to my friends that they take a class with me.  No one said yes.  Or, rather, they said yes, but never meant it.  Love you guys! 

Finally, FINALLY, I talked a friend into going.  Hooray!  We made a date, she contacted the teacher, we were set.  The class was held at the instructor’s house about 25-30 minutes south of where I live.  It’s a little far for a class, but I was going to get real training!  By an instructor who was recommended to me by another instructor!  It was going to be awesome! 

I passed by the house on my first attempt.  Damn.

  

We all walked into her house, took off our shoes.  Her yoga studio is pretty awesome.  I am not good at describing things, but it was pretty.  Beautiful lightly-stained wood floors, big floor-to-ceiling bay windows that look out onto 8 acres of land.  Through the window, I could see an outdoor area for yoga, but with the mosquito problems we’ve had this summer, we voted to stay indoors. 

There were 11 of us in all in the class.  We began class seated in a circle on the floor.  Went through about 20 minutes of introduction.  Who we are, why we were there.  Then the chanting began.

I knew chanting was a part of it.  In the P90X version I’d done, there are ohms at the end of the video.  And, I did them.  Because, according to Tony, our nervous system needed to be massaged.  Or something.  But, this time, I was afraid I wasn’t going to get through them without laughing.  I mean, I understand the benefits of yoga.  That was the main reason I want to do it.  It just felt… silly.  I had to give it a chance, though.  If I wasn’t going to go all in, there was no point being there. 

So, I faked it chanted. 

And messed up the words.  How do you mess up an ohm?

Eh. 

The poses we did were pretty similar to what I’ve done in the past.  I felt good about my technique.  She only corrected my position once.  Wait, twice.  When she told us to rotate our knees, I had each knee going in the opposite direction of each other (picture 'wax on, wax off').  She then put my knees together and showed me what she meant (both knees going in the 'wax on' direction).

Oh. 

Okay, that part made me laugh out loud.  Was I trying to make it difficult?  Picture you knees rotating in towards each other.  It’s not easy.

And then came the half hour relaxation part.  This was the part I always skipped in my prenatal yoga video.  Who can lie still for that long without being asleep?  Or watching a movie?  Or reading?  And how are you supposed to turn off the outside world?  For as long as I can remember, every time I’ve tried to “tune out”, it has only made me think more obscure thoughts.  

"Did I turn off my curling iron this morning?"
"I should stop and get some milk on my way home."
"Gaaah!  Stop thinking!  Concentrate on not thinking!"
"I should consider getting one of those yoga blankets.  They're cute."
"I wonder how long we have to lie here?"
"Man, I suck at this." 

But, then it got a little easier because she gave us images to think about.

A butterfly.

A sunset over the ocean.
A bottle of ketchup.

I have to admit, I felt pretty great afterward.  Didn't feel like talking much afterward, but I was Chatty Cathy once I got home.  And the euphoria lasted clear through the next day.

This is my kind of exercise.  Namaste!

The dating game (kids version)

So, my soon-to-be-7-year-old started first grade this year.  Unlike Kindergarten, he is in school full-time this year, including lunch.  The start of first grade brought on a whole new set of supplies needed (which I secretly love, by the way):  art box (!), 5 colored folders, hole reinforcers (?), crayons, scissors, pencils, etc., and a lunch box (!).  With that lunch box?  Lunches.  With snacks.  I think that might've been the most important part to him.

I have to admit, I was a little more worried about him at the start of this school year than last.  For one, he's there a full 7 hours instead of 2-1/2 (and yes, Kindergarten was only 2-1/2 hours - how that teacher taught all 28 children to read is a minor miracle).  Secondly, he only knew one kid from Kindergarten that was going to be in his first grade class.  I'll tell you, I was more bummed than he was.  He knew the kids in his Kindergarten class, his cousin was in there, we knew some of the parents already... we were on our way to finding his lifelong BFF.  And then, bam!  Now we had to start all over again.

As a parent, you worry about your child making friends.  Looking back, I don't know how I made my childhood best friend.  I just remember her being my best friend.  I don't remember my mother setting up play dates or even talking to my friends' mothers other than a friendly wave at drop off and pick up.

It's not that way anymore.  Now we set up play dates.  I had had "play dates" before, but those were more my friends and I getting together while our children played with each other's toys.  The real play dates are different.

Personally, I think these play dates are more interviews than anything.  To see if we, the mothers, like each other, which, in turn, makes it okay for our children to hang out.  And, since I'm really not all that good at making friends (the ones I have are the ones I've had practically all my life and I'm happy with that), these interviews are unnerving.  What if they don't like me?  What if I don't like them and my child does?

Over the summer, my soon-to-be-7-year-old played T-ball.  A few of his friends from Kindergarten were on his team.  The other mothers and I slowly got to know each other over the season as we cheered on one another's children.  We were even invited to one of the boys' birthday parties, which then led to a real play date.

I was nervous before the play date.  What's the protocol?  Do you just drop your kid off and pick him up in an hour?  Do you stay to chat while they play?  I ended up staying.  And the mother and I chatted nonstop for 3-1/2 hours.  I LOVED her.  I had visions of her becoming my new bff (lower case - no one could possibly replace my BFF).  She and I were so compatible, it was so easy.

And then, a few weeks later, we learned her son was not in my son's class (bubble bursting).  My son was, however, in the same class as one of the other boys on his T-ball team, so I felt good about that.  He's a nice boy, I like his mother.  We tried to have a play date (ugh, that stupid word) at the zoo the week before school started, but it was packed, so, instead, we went to Chuck E. Cheese's (double ugh).  My almost-7-year-old was happy that this boy was going to be in his class, so I was happy for him.   

(Sidenote:  I saw my bff at meet the teacher night and she swore we would still get together for play dates [fingers crossed]).

In the meantime, I had to move forward.  My son had to meet the new kids in his class.  He kept bringing up one child's name in particular, and, one day, brought home this boy's phone number.  My son wrote his number down and gave it to his new classmate the next day and his mother called us on Friday to set up a play date.

Sigh.  Here we go again.

I had high hopes.  Our first and second attempts at play dates went well, so there was no need to think otherwise.  I honestly don't know how kids make friends.  Is it location?  Is it that like-minded people gravitate towards each other?  I remember my mother telling me once that my second grade teacher told her at a parent-teacher conference that I was with a good group of friends and not to worry about me.  How did I get so lucky?  How did I not end up best friends with the girl across the street who used to smoke at the bus stop?  More importantly, how could I ensure my child wouldn't be friends with the kid who smokes at the bus stop?

So, on Saturday, we had a play date.  It went... okay.  The conversation flowed pretty well, but I didn't get the "we are going to be besties!" feeling from the mother.  She has 2 older children and had some pretty good horror stories about other mothers she's met.  And I wasn't sure how she felt about me.  She mentioned how she watches her son pretty closely, but, at my house, I pretty much let the boys run free.  I know they're safe in our house, so I don't feel I need to constantly be in the same room as them anymore.  I only worry when it's quiet, which usually means they're up to no good (for example, I once caught my 3-year-old drawing on his walls in permanent marker [where'd he find the marker?  and while I should be proud his shapes were perfect, it was permanent marker! on the walls!] or the time my at-the-time-4-year-old stuffing dirty underwear under his dresser).

What was I saying?

Oh right.  So I wasn't sure if she was judging me for letting the kids play unsupervised in our (childproof - except for the kitty litter [which I hope she didn't notice]) basement.  But she seemed nice enough and, while I don't need to be besties with my child's friend's mother, I think she and I will be fine waving to each other at pick ups and drop offs.

Hey, it was good enough for my mother, it's good enough for me.

I'm still holding out for my bff.  Call me! 
              

DC is as DC does

Disclaimer: some, all, or none of this story is true.

So, I went to DC this past weekend to visit my BFF. We had planned a girls’ weekend, complete with hotel accommodations, swim-up bar with fruity beverages and plenty of books. And, most importantly, no (although I love them dearly as they are the light of my life) children. In fact, I didn’t plan to talk to my BFF at all. It was all about relaxing, reading and drinking fruity beverages. It was going to be heaven.

The trip started as it always does. Get on the turnpike. Head east. For 6 hours. Arrive at destination. Simple, right?

Not this time.

After about 5 minutes on the turnpike, we screech to a complete and utter stop. Nothing is moving. While waiting, I check my phone for Facebook updates. I update my Twitter status. I paint my nails. Nothing. I then notice some cars in front of me pulling a U-turn. On the turnpike. Where the sign clearly says, “No U-turn”. But, at this point, making the U-turn looks mighty appealing. I had to pee, it looked like there was no hope in sight of ever moving again. So… what did I do? I made the U-turn, you betcha. I'm craaaaaazzzzy! (Or? It never happened. You decide.)

40 minutes out of my way and I was back on the original route. I made my routine stop in Breezewood, PA for some gas for the car and snacks for me. Breezewood was swarming with motorcycles. They were like locusts, eating up all the available space. I stopped at one gas station, noticed the line was too long, so I inched my way back into traffic to hit the next gas station.

The light was red. I had gotten halfway out of the parking lot and into the street before I could move forward no further. And then the motorcycles came from out of nowhere and surrounded me. I was already halfway onto the street, but I inched forward a little more so the biker who had decided to cut me off could see that I was already there. His response?

“Don’t even think about it.”

Now I’m wondering where I could possibly go. I can’t go forward or this hairy scary man was going to beat a poor helpless girl (me - in a minivan no less!), and I couldn’t go backward as there were bikers behind me. I was trapped.

So, I did what any crabby respectable girl in a minivan would do. I rolled down my window to yell at talk to the asshole nice biker.

Me (in my sweet angelic voice): “Excuse me, sir. I was already here before you and your menacing charismatic posse group of friends took over the road.”

Him (in his smoker’s gravelly voice): “So, hit me. You got insurance? Hit me.”

Me (with bluebirds tweet tweet tweeting in the background): “But, where am I supposed to go?”

Him (with George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” playing from his bike radio): “Not my problem.”

Me (on the verge of sweet tears): “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful jerkoff.”

Alas, the light turned green and the chivalrous biker let me out first. “After you,” he said, with a grand sweep of his arm.

I drove 2.2 inches from the driveway I was hanging out of into the next gas station driveway. (Or? It never happened.)

(I did learn later that the swarm of motorcycles was for an annual memorial ride to commemorate the 9/11 attacks. This guy sure did have a malevolent attitude for such a benevolent tribute. Idiot.)

And, because of all this, I hit DC just in time for rush hour. And a thunderstorm. And? I had to pee again.

But, the rest of the weekend was great and can be summed up like this:

- Overeating
- Meeting brother’s lady friend (I like her, which, of course, means it’s doomed)
- Unexpectedly spending a fun evening with an old high school friend
- Learning that President John Tyler has two living grandsons
- Wanting to punch sorority/bachelorette girls in the throat for being too loud at the hotel when all I wanted to do was read my book
- Actually punching sorority/bachelorette girls in the throat for being too loud at the hotel when all I wanted to do was read my book
- Remembering what it was like to be annoying while drunk on spring break (Spring Break ’99 – holla!)
- Wondering if we annoyed thirty-something-year-old mothers on a weekend away from their children
- Determining that no one goes to South Beach and expects quiet
- Reminding myself that I’m old
- Not going to jail

(Or? Did I?)

Deep in the heart of Texas, y'all

So, now it's time to talk about the wonder that is Texas.

Our trip started out with a bang (unfortunately, not a bang from the gun of a traveling cowboy). 3 hours into our vacation, we were at the neighbor's pool when my husband dove into the pool with gusto and... dislocated his shoulder. So, we were lucky enough to visit the inside of a Dallas emergency room. For 4 hours. We had some very nice people taking care of us, Jojo and Beau. (Not kidding.)

Our second day, the plan was to take the boys to Dave and Buster's for some lunch and games and then to the aquarium. While at Dave and Buster's, my sister's cell phone was stolen. 0 for 2.

Third day, the neighbor girls took Miss Macie Mae for a walk. And promptly lost her. 0 for 3. Luckily Miss Macie Mae is a smart dog and was able to walk herself home.

The fourth day, we planned to go to the circus. I told my sister that if we were stampeded by a herd of elephants, if a trapeze artist fell and landed on one of us, if a clown car ran us over, we were on the next plane out of town. Luckily for her us, that didn't happen. The only memorably bad thing that happened the rest of the trip was, while at the aquarium, a bird pooped on the husband's head. Even though it's supposedly good luck, he didn't think so. The trip was not kind to that man. He may never vacation again.

I think the best way to sum up the trip is in song:

The stars at night, are big and bright,
deep in the heart of Texas,
The prairie sky is wide and high,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(My sister had explained to me there is no elevation in Texas. When we flew in, I saw what she meant. Dallas is as flat as the bugs we stepped on. Not that Ohio is the Swiss Alps or anything, but we have some rolling hills. It never rained while we were there, so we were able to see the stars every night. They, surprisingly, looked like the stars in Ohio. Go figure.

But it's true that everything is bigger in Texas. The churches, the strip malls. The hair. Their love of the lone star (it's imprinted on every overpass), honey mustard, Dr. Pepper and frozen yogurt.)

The sage in bloom is like perfume,deep in the heart of Texas,
Reminds me of, the one I love,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(Hmm. No comment here. The houses are so close together in Dallas, there is no room for vegetation.)

The coyotes wail, along the trail,
deep in the heart of Texas,
The rabbits rush, around the brush,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(Didn't see any wildlife either. The houses are too close together. And it's so hot, all the wildlife is probably dead.)

The cowboys cry, "Ki-yip-pee-yi,"
deep in the heart of Texas.

(This is what I was looking forward to the most. And I have to say I was a bit disappointed. Don't all people in Texas wear cowboy hats and boots, snap shirts and belts with big buckles? Isn't there tumbleweed rolling along the dirt roads? Aren't there duals at high noon every day for us to observe? What a letdown.

We did, however, go to Fort Worth one afternoon to watch the cattle run. By "cattle run", I mean 8 cows ambling down the street in the insufferable heat. The boys really enjoyed it when one of the cows pooped right in front of us. But I bought myself an adorable cowboy hat that day, so not all was lost. I may never wear it outside the state of Texas, but it's a nice souvenir.)

The doggies bawl, and bawl and bawl,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(The only dog I heard was my sister's dog. And she just sort of yipped. And only when I stepped on her. The boys fell in love with her. At any given time of day, you could find the 6-year-old or 3-year-old carrying her around. And she was so tolerant of them. She would look at you, sort of resigned, thinking "I'll get you for this", but never fought the kids. The 6-year-old asked if we could get a dog. I told him that Zoe (our cat) probably wouldn't like that. His response? "When she DIES?" Nice. And? Sorry, Zoe.)

Thanks sister and brother-in-law for a great trip! Y'all are great hosts! And, um, sorry if we broke any of your stuff. Like the dog.

There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror. ~Orson Welles

So, my cousin got married last week in Tyler, Texas. My sister lives about 2 hours from there, in Dallas, and told me I was going to this damwedding (no offense, Jonas) or she'd kill me. See, I hadn't visited my sister since she moved there. 5 years ago. My other siblings had been there, my parents, some cousins. Even my husband had been there. But me? Notsomuch. And why, do you ask?

My insane, totally illogical, and, at times, uncontrollable fear of flying.

I'm well aware that flying is the safest form of travel. I still don't get how that's possible (a 10,000+ pound tin can in the sky), but I am aware of the statistics.

I have never had an easy time flying. As I've mentioned, my first flight was when I was 9 years old. To Greece. A 9-hour flight. It went about as well as you'd expect for a girl petrified of everything (at that time, anyway. I have now limited my fear to flying. And ghosts.  And tiny ants.). The trip involved a lot of screaming. And crying. And dragging. And (my mother denies this) a little white pill.

So, needless to say, I never flew much. I think it was 10 years before I flew again (again, to Greece). And, after that, random trips to DC, NYC, Denver, Salt Lake City, LA. When my brother got married in Florida, we flew. We had a layover in Chicago, so, while we waited for our connecting flight, my sister called my brother, already in Naples, and told him that I didn't get on the plane.

Ha ha. Isn't that funny? Lea didn't get on the plane. Again! Ha ha ha! Grr. How was I the only one in the family with this fear? It's irritating.

I found I flew better by myself. I wasn't able to project my fears onto anyone. On another trip to Florida to visit my college roommate, I ended up helping the woman next to me who sounded the way I felt. Since my brother was a pilot, I knew how airplanes worked, what all the sounds were and I explained it all to her. I was damproud of myself.

Since this flight to Texas was the boys' first, I didn't want to project my fears onto them. We had been talking up the trip for weeks and the boys were really excited. They love to point out planes in the sky, so I figured being in one would be equally exciting. But, 2 days before our flight, my 6-year-old admitted to me he was afraid. Crap. Instead of blowing him off with a "You'll be fine" like everyone does with me, I tried to explain the logistics of air travel. I suggested he talk to my brother if he wanted more explanation than that, but he seemed satisfied.

The day of the trip, I was a nervous wreck. I was up at 4:30am, which is never a good thing for anyone. We got to the airport, I did my normal nervous routine. Pacing pacing pacing, bathroom, pacing pacing pacing. The kids were quiet, but I could tell they just wanted to get on the plane already. They were a bundle of excitement and nerves. Excited nerves. Nervous excitement.

The husband and I divided and conquered. He took the 6-year-old, I took the 3-year-old. As we were gaining speed for liftoff, the 3-year-old started to cry. Crap. But once we took flight, he was laughing. Whew! And... they were great through the entire trip. Better than me, that's for sure. My random thoughts included:

• thank goodness for movies
• flight attendants HATE their jobs
• I think I smell smoke - is that smoke?!
• I cannot wait for the Bachelor Pad 2
• I still don't understand bumps in AIR
• unclench
• now I smell onions
• is this over yet?

And yet, we survived.