The week before Christmas marked a major milestone for me as a parent. My husband and I left all five of our sons (and our two dogs) with my sainted mother (sainted for agreeing to and following through with a promise to watch the aforementioned horde) and flew to Houston.
As in Texas. The Texas. The one that is over a thousand miles from my porch.
Not that I was fixated on how far away it was. (No indeed, what I was fixated on was whether anyone from the no-fly list would sneak onto my flight. I mentally ran through my self-defense checklist and brushed up on my martial arts skills. Was I going to leave my children parentless in the name of a vacation? What? Like you haven't thought of that before? If you haven't, I bet you will now. I apologize.)
Aside from taking short sojourns at the nearest hospital to birth more children, and two little overnight expeditions to area food events, I have not left my kids for any appreciable time or distance.
The kids and mutts were deposited at Mom's along with the pediatrician's contact information, half of our household furnishings, the keys to our van, 50 pounds of dog food, triplicate copies of our cell phone numbers, flight numbers and the name and address of the bed and breakfast where we would be staying. And we were off ...
Considering that this is the first time that I have flown since shortly before 9/11, I think I stayed fairly calm. (All that pre-trip karate practice paid dividends in calmness.) Aside from elbowing my husband to pay closer attention to the flight attendant's hand gestures indicating the emergency exits, and repeating The Lord's Prayer three or four times, I would say I was pretty mellow.