The kids made it through four days of car napping, later night partying, and walking down the aisle like a couple of champs only to completely lose it on the plane ride home.
I knew it was bound to happen sometime.
The hour plus long wait for take off in Philly, along with a take off that seemed to take forever, sent Drew into a 20-minute complete and utter breakdown. Even after I had given him all the organic lollipops, gummy bears, coloring books, and backhoe loaders I could muster, followed by creative tasks, like cleaning the tables and arms of the seats with a baby wipe, looking out the window for birds, and allowing him to place stickers all over my arms, he still went into a chorus of high pitched screams and heavy breathing, accompanied by a kick line unlike anything I've ever seen.
Radio City! HERE WE COME!
After a few sips of "apple beer" (my son calls everything in a can "beer" - I'm not sure who I blame for that one) in the back of the plane, we returned to find my husband's pants covered in a cup of water, strategically dropped so he looked like he had accidentally wet himself. Apparently Margot had decided she wanted water and was willing to fight for it.
I'll be honest. Amidst what was clearly one of the worst plane rides I've ever had, part of me was more worried about joining the club of parents whose kids you see laying on the ground screaming and kicking while the parents stare down at them in utter disgust, or hold their kids' arms tightly and scold them through their locked jaws and gritted teeth.
But then I realized, that's basically all parents at one point of time or another. Despite our best efforts, we still get stuck in the middle of hell week every now and then.
Except if that's the case, then this should really be cause for celebration and a whole hell of a lot of beer.