We took a little trip last week.
By most definitions of the word, anyway, it was little. A short flight. Just two days. A limited itinerary.
But for us, it was quite big.
Baby boy’s first ever airplane ride. Big sister’s first since she started storing memories. Our first trip as a family of four. Both children’s first time meeting an aunt and two cousins. Their first time in Boston.
I remember the first few times we traveled with our girl. Oh the stress and the anxiety. The over planning and worrying.
This time, there was much less of that.
And it’s not that we are experienced at toting kids through airports. We’re not.
But this time, I knew we’d be ok. I figured there would be at least one in-air tantrum (there was). I counted on a few cases of trouble sleeping in a new place (check). I planned for some rough moments trying to keep everyone happy and somewhat entertained in a hotel room with very few toys (yep).
But we were ok. We were better than ok.
We were out. In a new city. Seeing new things. Shaking it up. Breaking routine in an adventure kind of way.
We were visiting family. Catching up with people we truly never see. Seeing that cousin bond solidify within an hour in a way that happened once for me and I’m so glad could happen for my girl.
And it was good.
M and I used to travel a lot. In the years before our girl joined us, we jetted off frequently. We were those people. Always setting sights on the next destination.
But before last week, I hadn’t been on a plane in almost two years. The last time I was away from home for more than an afternoon I was in the hospital giving birth to my son.
There is a certain staleness that comes from not going anywhere. And a certain excitement and pace-changing feeling that comes from even the shortest trip.
Plus, there is just so much to see in this world. So much to do. So much I want my children to experience.
So our trip to boston last week was little. But for me and for us, it means very big things.