My Jenn-eration

Here is the thing about flying: I hate it. I hate everything about it: the operations, the uncertainty, the germ infested airports, the time spent trapped in your seat. I hate all of it. The only thing I hate more than any of this is doing all of that, but with my children. Flying with young children is a test of your personal fortitude, the strength of your marriage, and a direct challenge to your belief system in all that is holy and right. It’s fucking exhausting. Do you ever wonder what Hell looks like? It looks exactly like that spot where the families wait to pre-board a flight. The children run around bouncing off the walls and the parents cling to each other, weighed down by excessive amounts of travel gear for children they know will be incapable of using any of it for more than 5 seconds. The only thing more terrifying than the look on the parents’ faces is that of the other passengers who know they will be stuck with you. It is a dark moment made even more macabre by...

Details. This weekend I’ve been swimming in the details. Sometimes even when life is really good, it can still be overwhelmingly transactional. This seems true whether you are a parent or not, but it felt particularly true these past few days as little tired humans wrung out from pools and BBQs and late summer nights needed more and more of me. It wasn’t their fault. They are young and tired. Their patience is short and they get cold and hungry and hot and thirsty and itchy and sad and bored. I understand. I am feeling all of that too, while I carefully maneuver their transactional minefield littered with delicate young feelings and fragments of my frayed patience. I tend, I kiss, I cook, I clean, I tuck. This morning we decided to venture off to a state park we’d never tried before which promised waterfalls and a small lake to swim in and a little beach area and picnicking: a new spot to enjoy one of the finest days that summer had to offer.  But there were bottles to ...