The holiday

I've never considered myself highly adventurous, but through the years, many have told me that some of my choices might not have been the easiest on the catalog. I've always traveled with my children, and when the first two were small, I always did it in their father's company. Still, when my third son was one year old, and the other two were a constant menace to my mental health, I decided to fly solo and leave my husband at home, who was trying to finish some last-minute deliverables. I had too many holidays after the pregnancy and the maternal leave, so I decided I would visit my mother and then, after one week, meet my dear partner on a little Atlantic Island, where we would meet his family. 

I grew up with a single mother who became a single grandma, a loving and rather possessive one, and I could be lying if I did not expect what happened. When I told her on the phone I would catch a plane with my children, she was the happiest woman on Earth. When I said I would stay with her for a few days and then fly again to my mother-in-law's place, she found it selfish and irresponsible. I was about to make my children go in and out of airports independently of their ages. I was planning to visit too many people, and above all, I would not spend all my holidays with her, which was both shameful and unforgivable. I knew the visit would be a disaster immediately, but I kept firm on my ideas. As I said before, I do not always choose the easiest path.

The travel to my mother's place took me eight hours and immense patience. I survived four suitcases, three kids, different types of cookies, milk, and diapers. I spent one hour on a train, two hours waiting in the airport, and a three-hour flight before picking up my car in the rent-a-car and getting lost from the airport to my mother's place. When I arrived at my childhood place, my mother told me she was surprised I could not use my GPS properly and, immediately after, moved all her attention to the three cranky devils I'd brought with me. In town, everything was hot. Saying that it was warm would do no justice to the temperatures we suffered. To be outside, we had to leave the house very early or very late to avoid the exposition to the burning sun, and inside the house, there was no air conditioner or a fan to combat the suffocating temperatures, so the blinders would be closed most of the time and the house would be dark. I felt like a vampire in continuous dehydration, and the kids were not happy either. Even a visit to the public swimming pool was something to avoid because it was packed, the old installations had seen better days, and my baby's immune system was not the best that summer.

In summary, I spent a whole week inside a small apartment with three excessively energetic kids without their toys in a scalding town with nothing to do but listen to parenting tips from my dear mother. It was not fantastic, but I survived it. After all, I knew I would meet my partner shortly after, in milder weather conditions and a bigger space to let the little creatures run and crawl, which gave me a little bit of energy and hope. After seven days, three hours, and 45 minutes, I left town in my rental car on my way to the airport and the holiday freedom I had been dreaming of for months. I only wanted sun, time by the pool, and, if possible, nothing to do. I am sure that mothers around the globe dream the same: not being chased by their kids and enjoying the silence for five straight minutes. Such a combination is almost impossible, but I was sure it could recharge my batteries. I am an optimistic person by nature, realistic due to professional reasons, and pessimistic by experience, but I had bet on a good holiday, and I refused to have anything else.

On my way to the airport, the map on my cell phone froze, so I had to drive looking at the signs on the road, terrified about the chance of getting lost again. Still, it did not happen, and I arrived on time to return the car and head to the departure area. We took care of our check-in and waited. Two hours passed, with no information about the boarding gate, when, to my horror, I saw a big red "DELAYED" on the information screen that made me gasp and pray to not have to return to my mother's place. A few minutes later, with three impatient kids by my side, I was told that we were only a couple of hours delayed, which is much easier to say than to hear when your kids are either trying to run away from you or having a meltdown because their bottle is not at the optimal temperature. I kept myself calm. I was determined to endure whatever was thrown at me because I was flying to my calm holiday. No one would ruin it. Not even my children, who were chasing other passengers' kids and fighting between them at that point. 

Two hours passed, the plane arrived, and we boarded. Halfway through our destination, I knew my husband would be waiting at the airport. I smiled when I saw my little one, wholly exhausted, sleeping by my side. The other two were fighting for the crayons and some playing cards, but instead of trying to stop them, I looked outside the window and thought about green grass and blue skies. The plane was already descending when we felt the first bump. I thought it was a regular case of turbulences, but then we had a second and a third. I could see the airport through the window, but instead of approaching it, we were turning. Then, the pilot started to speak, and the message he gave us was even worse than the speaker system: 

"Strong winds. Re-routed. Another island."

For the first time in hours, my two older children shut up and asked me what was happening, and for the first time ever, I wished they had kept on fighting.

"It's a minor delay," I told them, not knowing what would happen. I did not lie. I sure did not know I was about to fly to another island and wait, once we had landed, for three more hours in a very warm plane, with no food or water and a super cranky baby that traveled many flight assistant arms while I had a minor panic attack. Things happen.

We waited all that time because the captain thought we could fly again, but that did not happen. Then, someone said we could go by ferry to our final destination, but at that time, there were already three more planes waiting for instructions, and there was no space for all those people in the boat. Finally, we were told we would be spending that day and the following in a five-star resort until we could secure seats on the ferry. Everyone on the plane was happy. All of them but me, because I had spent a week with my mother, I had three little children by my side, and the only thing I wanted was to arrive home and close myself in any room and cry. Panic attacks have this effect on me, but the real world's plans were not to allow me such privilege.

We left the plane, looked for our suitcases in a sea of luggage and people looking for their bags, and entered a bus that took us to the hotel. I got the key for a little house, which would have been more than perfect if my state of mind had been acceptable, but I had long passed that threshold. I called my husband and told him to take me out from that idyllic island I was not interested in, and he managed to book the four seats we needed after my mother-in-law pleaded her case on the phone with the Ferry Company. I took the kids to the free buffet, who fell in love with the possibility of infinite free food. I loved to see them so happy while they mixed shrimp, pancakes, and ice cream and counted the hours before handing back our suite's keys to the receptionist.

"Maybe another year," I told her, and I rushed to the taxi that would take us to our next destination.

We entered the ferry, and I did not breathe properly until I felt the propellers working. The truth is that I barely breathed for two hours until we arrived at our island, where our family was waiting for us.

"Did you have a good trip? Asked my dear husband, laughing when he held me in his arms.

"Please, never let me go again," I replied, watching my kids running away from us and the little one crying in my mother-in-law's arms...