Amelia Earhart with Dramamine

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Amelia Earhart sure did love to fly, but did she ever get air sick?

What would she have said to my daughter who now knows the inside of those airsick bags?

We are recovering from a tough flight in a mini-plane. Recovering from flying in a mini van.

I am “up in the air” over the dizzying prospect that we will have to take this little jumper again, on two more mini-legs of our trip.

Trying to face fears and be a good mom. Or be a good mom and eradicate fears. And throw-up. Let’s eradicate throw-up.

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No, this isn’t Ms. Earhart’s plane; this is ours, from today, year 2014. I think the only difference between Amelia’s ride and ours is color vs black and white!

We took this sweet baby from the horse and buggy roads of Lancaster, PA, to Washington-Dulles airport. We, my two kiddos and I, were three passengers out of the whopping four passenger who rode. The pilot and copilot were so close. I felt like they were just playing some Wii or Atari flight simulator game. No, wait, I didn’t feel like that because we were absolutely dangling from the sky in this little outdated car with wings. It was a rode trip in an old Datsun.

With turbulence. Great big gusts of turbulence that rocked our inner cores.

Sometimes A to B is tough, Amelia. You must have known that more than anyone.

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It was in the car, we first discovered our daughter’s motion sickness. We are gathering methods; It is all about hustling chewing gum, distractions like movies, and the reason why I am wedged in between her’s and her brother’s car seat: to rub her tummy.

Adding to our strategies is a big big harrowing ride. It was not the America/Japan flights.  It was a cute little domestic flight, all of fifty-minutes. We took the hardest little airplane of our lives. Skydiving could have been better, because at least we would have been prepared with parachutes. How about one for the baby?

And the terrible, funny, not-funny thing is that we are scheduled to hop on (or drag our bodies onto) two more of these little flights over the next week and a half. I will be positive. I will be positive. I will be positive.

I am doing some soul-searching, some grand fear-facing, and some mega Dramamine buying over the next couple of days. I’ll let you know what I find.

Love, peace, and airbags,

Meliss

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static prepares to board

This was a post of travel with my sweet kids as we readied ourselves for the sky.

All best to you as you prepare those diaper bags and brace yourselves for home, but also a little reverse culture shock, maybe. As you love those friends and families you’ve missed, and let them lavish you with the hugs and all of those little things you’ve missed.

~~~~~   ~~~~~    ~~~~~    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~..

See–I’m preparing to travel to visit my dear dear amazing amazing Grandpa who has gotten sick. 

We will go and hug him so hard, so much. 

All of the energy in traveling is already worth it, obviously.

But there is still some stuff to ready, some static to comb through. 

jude's close face

Static is what we hear when one of the monitors is not on.

It is all crinkly, reminding us of old time tv rabbit ears & standing with tin foil in your hand,

one leg extended, body mashed mid-movement like twister, erect, away from the board.

Some things are a bit staticky too, right now.

My husband gave me a sip of his whisky, with directions to “take a good slug”

to just calm me down a bit,

even me out.

See, I’m preparing to fly with the kids

(first time with both)

& I’ll be the only parent, like always on these flights.

And it is not a hop, skip, & a jump,

but over oceans.

Over blue and depending on the airline,

we may cruise over pointy white caps

like we are jettisoning snowboarders

shooting a spearmint ad.

My kiddos & I will fling ourselves across the sky,

eat & try to sleep

& be warm and lovely and ourselves

in cabin pressure

in same clothes

in what the heck time is it

& what the heck meal is this supposed to be

in lumbering through same aisle-ways

bumping into big guys’s arm extended

& why are all these ladies wearing night time, stick on white masks. They are so freaking scary.

We will try to fit

in too small bathrooms

for anyone

let alone people changing diapers

on ten month old boys who will not ever want to sit or lay down.

There will be crinkles of static

or at least rolling carts, snores of white noise

but it is always worth it

for the joy in the receiving line,

the overtired speak

through Customs when you have to say what you do in Japan

& spit out why you are here, in America

& you feel ragged, soggy

GLIMMERING like you’ve just come through Ellis Island

& maybe your name will be changed

& everything is emotional

for the weary traveler

who may not be able to hear out of one ear for two weeks

for the hormonal woman being a single mother when she is not used to

such strength full throttle for that whole jet-lagged time,

leaning forward with the dang piece of tinfoil

and folded-in, pressurized smile

concentrating on

the next 48-72 hours

of getting there alive,

bracing for those next steps in the itinerary

and just wanting so many hugs

& a Taco-Bell burrito.

Mapping

Written on my United flight with my sixth-month boy, as we flew out of Japan, away from my daughter & hubby, 

towards my sis & her baby, grandparents, the whole mishpocha but not my girl & man. 

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photo by Flight Aware, Japan

I keep looking up

at the map

as I sail over

Saskatchewan

& measure time

by how fast

I inch towards

the Great Lakes

& over.

Keep studying

glancing up

moment to moment

as if it’s a subway map

written in Japanese

where at any moment,

my stop

could sneak up on me

& I could

quite accidentally, sail past.

 

My jet-setting trips pre-babies were so glamorous–just me, Vogue, lotsa wine, & movies. 

In between activities, I’d use fabulous moisturisers and make carefree lists about upcoming plans. And now? I cannot pull up the movie screen with the airline’s bassinet set up. Sharing my lap with a baby and a meal does not work, and I actually used my Chapstick as an eye cream, applying with my dehydrated, leathery flying hands. I slept all of ten minutes (out of 14 hrs) , finally giving it up to go become besties with the other insomniacs & flight attendants in the back, where we talked phone plans and airline mergers ala 1986. 

All I could do was stare at those computerised, real-time maps. I actually asked an attendant, “Are we there yet?”, only two hours into our crazy-long trip. 

How has your jet-setting life changed over the years or with kiddos on your lap? How do you cling to that old luxe life in the air?