Well, my friends a terrible storm is the place to start and that’s exactly what we got Saturday night.  We hadn’t heard anything about it up until we were buckling up for our second flight, the shorter, the we’ll be home in an hour, I wonder if they’re even going to bother with a beverage service one.  The flight attendant announced that we were going to be flying through a storm, then assured us that our flight crew was excellent and that we were in good hands.  Paul and I have both flown a lot, so neither of us thought much of it, other than to note we probably wouldn’t be unbuckling.  It was a short flight and we would be home soon.  It was then 8 p.m. EDT.

All of us were tired.  Repeated late nights were taking their toll and we were all longing for home.  Our family comprised an entire row, both sides of the aisle, with one seat vacant.  I started on one side with Lydia, but then Eden wanted to join us.  Later she was bugging Lydia, so I sent her back to Paul and Christopher.  I was reading a book about about art history, which I found engrossing, so other than looking up to ask for a water, assist Eden with her beverage, chat with Lydia, bust up some entanglements and navigate an emotional and mental breakdown with the person having it, I pretty much had my head in my book.

I hadn’t really noticed that the flight was exceptionally long, until the captain announced that the weather was preventing us from landing and that we would be holding for another twenty minutes trying to ride it out.    If the storm didn’t pass, we would be diverted to Detroit.  Paul and I exchanged a glance filled with resignation across the aisle and then I returned to my reading.    

“I have to go to the bathroom.”  Eden whined.

My heart sank.  Who knew how long we would have before we would be at the gate.  The seat belt signs were on and the crew had been commanded to take their seats as well.  I told Eden she had to wait a little and then prayed.  She went back to coloring.  I returned to my book and  began to bite my fingernail manically.  

The twenty minutes or more passed and the captain announced that we were flying to Detroit to refuel, hopefully allowing a break in the storm.  As we began to descend, Eden noted the clouds and begged for the camera.  She took about thirty pictures before Paul motioned for me to cut her off as the flash was a distraction in the darkening cabin.  I thought a urine soaked five year old would be a bigger disturbance, but understood his concern and put the camera away.

At this point Paul’s mom was praying for our safety.  Since the pilot was taking every precaution to that end, who knows if her prayers were diverted to Eden’s bladder.   By whatever miracle, the girl made it.   As soon as we could, I hustled her down the aisle to get in the long line to the lavs.  

Let me just say that assisting a child in an airplane lav, as well as completing my own business there, is one of my least favorite activities.  But I was mindful enough to be grateful that Eden was not a baby with a diaper needing a change, which would have been much worse. 

We returned to our seats, Eden with the gents and I with Lydia.  The carnival of talking to children, meeting needs, reading and destroying my cuticles continued.  After a while, the lead flight attendant announced that those remaining in lines for the lavs needed to hustle it, as the plane was refueled, the papers were all signed, the gate agent had closed the door and we were cleared to push back. 

I don’t know how long it was before she got back on and asked if there was, “A nurse, an EMT or a physician on the plane.”  Her voice, normally cheerful and upbeat, was low and there was a touch of despair as she asked any one who might be able to help to go to the back of the aircraft.

Paul and I exchanged another, longer glance.  

There was a doctor.  After some time, he and the patient (on oxygen), the patient’s wife and all the flight attendants paraded up the aisle to first class where passengers had been reseated to make room in the first row for the first three and, eventually, the doctor’s wife.

Paul leaned over and whispered, “That’s one way to fly first class.”  I just looked at him for a moment.  This is a man whose company springs for business class for international travel, which is almost all he does.  He only flies coach when he flies with his family.

“You’re spoiled.”  I said.

“You’re right.”  He said.  

I returned to my book and my nails.

The plane was surprisingly quiet for a while and then a youngish man with pants hanging down to his knees slouched down the aisle.  He stopped just in front of our row where he yelled at a flight attendant for not letting us know what was going on.  “We’ve been sitting here an hour!”  He flung his hands in the air.  The attendant said something placating and promised to check our status.   

I raised an eyebrow at Paul.  What part of grounded for a refuel and now a medical emergency didn’t this guy understand?  Paul shrugged.  The man stomped back to his seat.  

Soon after that the Lead made an announcement apologizing for the lack of communication and explained that the airport EMTs had been called and though they had OK’d the patient to fly, were finishing up the paperwork, that we still were good to return to Grand Rapids and would be taking off as soon as possible.  

I can’t tell you how long it was after that the captain announced that the storm had intensified and we no longer had flight clearance.  The plan was for us to wait it out on the ground.  This was met by a general groan.  By now, it was after eleven, approaching midnight.  We had been on the plane over three hours.  Eden’s eyes were rolling back into her head.  I patted my lap and she tried to sleep.  I stroked her hair and face between tosses and turns, reading and obliterating my nails all the while.

The flight attendants pulled out the carts and did another beverage service.  The Lead up in First had recovered  and was cheerfully serving her passengers.  Those in Coach were obviously weary and broken in spirit.  They hunched over their carts, cheerlessly serving drinks and handing out any of the remaining snacks.  Paul requested one and reached for his wallet.  The flight attendant shoved the box at him and moaned, “We’re giving them away.”  Then he listlessly pushed his cart down the aisle.

The angry youngish man walked past us, with his backpack and demanded to be let off the plane.  I began to wonder how long the crew had been flying.  There are very specific and detailed rules governing how long crews can fly, but the accounting is confusing.  When too much time is elapsed the crew can waive their rights and stay with a flight, but this is strenuously discouraged by labor unions.  And we were looking at two different unions with five individuals.  All five would need to waive, if it came to that.

Eden had finally fallen asleep and the big kids were reading quietly.   It was then that the captain announced, “We’ve been cancelled.”  And hung up the mike.

I shut my book and looked at Paul.  We both knew that this cancellation was weather and that the airline wasn’t obligated to do anything for us.  We could get a hotel and try to fly out in the morning or rent a car and drive through the night.  The thought of a hotel with all three kids and no luggage brought on a shudder.

“Do you want to drive?”  I asked.

“Yeah, I do.”

“You go ahead, get a car and I’ll bring the kids after.”

He grabbed his bag and took off as soon as they opened the door and the line moved. 

I stayed put.  Eden had been sleeping less than ten minutes and trying to move her and my bag was too much at present.  I told the big kids to pack up, grabbed all of Eden’s belongings, checked for my own and then settled back in to watch the long parade of exhausted and disheartened passengers.  When two thirds of the plane had emptied there was a gap as a lady wrestled her bags out of the overheads.  I picked up Eden, tapped Christopher and Lydia and jumped into the aisle.  Lydia took Eden’s bag and her own while Christopher tackled his and mine.  

Some have said that readers are leaders but that doesn’t mean you want to carry their bags.   It was with some concern that I watched my skinny lad shoulder both our packs of books, but he did it without complaint and my worries soon shifted to my own burden of a comatose Bean and the aching stubs that, several hours ago had been my fingers. 

It was one a.m.  We stopped for the big kids to use the restroom and I rested.  Most of the remaining passengers trudged past us.  Lydia offered to give Eden a piggy back ride, who was awake just enough to hold on.   I took Lydia’s bag and my own and Christopher took Eden’s.  We walked for quite a distance and then I suggested we give Lydia a break.  Christopher wanted to give Eden a ride and traded with Lydia.  He marched down the dark and quiet halls cheerfully with his own peculiar jauntiness.  Lydia and I followed more sedately.

When we made it to luggage claim where we planned to meet Paul, I verified that our bags would be flown home the next day.  Soon after Paul called from the curb.   We loaded everyone in and drove away.  I had just exhaled, when his head snapped around and he asked, “Did you get my jacket!”

Now, the proper response to a question like that would have been a languid, “No, I remembered your three children and all their, as well as my own, belongings,” but I have A.D.D. and am almost always forgetting things, so instead I shrieked, “YOUR JACKET?  NO!  I FORGOT!”  I wised up quickly though, “Why didn’t you get it?”  I asked.

“YOU TOLD ME TO GO GET THE CAR, SO I JUST RAN-“

I felt a flash of horror, “Did you get your briefcase?”

“Yeah, I got that.” I breathed hard and then quickly weighed the value of his, admittedly nice jacket against going back into that airport.  We could buy another coat, I decided, but he continued, “Our passports were in my pocket.” 

All three kids began to cry.  We just got our passports a few weeks ago and they are inordinately pleased with them.  I could have wept too for different reasons.  I knew that, in all fairness, Paul should be the one to go back into the bowels of Metro to wait in line and wrangle with airline employees, but I was the one who knew exactly where to go and he was already driving.  Running a family on fairness rarely works.  Prudence and grace are better guides.  And frankly, if we ran on fairness, I would often be the one coming up short.  Besides, remaining in the car with the three kids didn’t look like a bowl of cherries either.

I hustled back to the emptying luggage claim.  An agent helped me right away.  Another agent was already preparing to go back to the plane on a similar errand.  The other agent told him to do a quick sweep of the whole aircraft.

I chitchatted with the agents about travel, kids, crazy people, unaccompanied minors and the terrible storm that our family was going to be driving into.  One agent invited me to take a peek at his monitor.  The storm was huge and full of colors.  I began to doubt the wisdom of making the drive as the lateness of the hour fell heavily on me.  

A little over thirty minutes later, we left the airport again and stopped for french fries and water.  Although she said she was hungry, Eden didn’t want anything because she was too tired to eat.  Her voice was wavery and pathetic.  Her face was swollen and her eyes were two little slits.  She looked miserable.  I too declined ordering, but when the fresh and hot fries arrived Eden and I both dug in.  What can we say?  So what if it was 2:30 a.m..  How often do you get good fries?  Fortunately, Paul ordered more than enough.

The kids, once fed, began to pass out.  Paul and I talked until we hit the storm.  I was in the middle of a story when I felt Paul quiet and focus. “Do you need me to stop talking?”  

“Yeah, it’s all I can do to focus on the white lines.”

I settled back in my seat and put my feet up.  We had begun our journey, the day before at 2 p.m. Mountain Time.  Nearly eleven hours later it was approaching 3 a.m. Eastern.  We had miles to go, but I was done.  Up until that moment I had some sort of lightness of being.  I had coped hour after hour by reading and chewing my nails, when push came to shove I had cowgirled up several times, but cramped in that front seat with nothing to read and no one to talk to, I came to the end of my resources.  So I prayed and fidgeted and shifted and fantasized about passing out in the trunk.

Halfway home, the girls came to.  Lydia was crazed and grumpy.  Eden just wept.  I spoke gently and prayed them back to sleep.  

Finally, finally we reached our exit and then our road.  I thought about the trees near my childhood home and how I always saw them at night upside down.  These trees, sheltering this house I always see the right side up, because I am the mother, sitting in the front, preparing to carry children into the house.  I am no longer the child sleeping or feigning it in the back.

And then we were in the drive.  Lydia had awakened and went to knock for Grandma while I gathered Eden and Paul followed with Christopher.  

The house was immaculate.  I carried Eden straight to bed, tore off her clothes and tucked her in.  Paul did the same with Christopher.  Paul’s mom had awakened with a second wind and eagerly showed me all the things she had been doing while we were gone.  Lydia followed like a little zombie until I shooed her to her room.  When Paul came in I slipped away.  I pulled on my nightgown  and as I slid between the lovely sheets I heard his mom saying, “Well you have milk and cereal.  You already had eggs.  Alison could make french toast…”  then I heard Paul’s voice muffled.  The door opened, he threw off his clothes, fell into bed and we slept. 

Hours later, but too soon, Eden climbed in with us.  I felt like a truck had driven over my head, but we were home.

Sweet Home.