In the days before our flight, we talked a lot about what it was going to be like. We did a lot of pretend play where we set up seats in the family room or sat inside boxes and “flew” around the world in our minds. We walked the block and talked about how busy airports are and how important it is to stay together and calm as much as possible. We wondered about what it would be like to see clouds out the window and we spun our toy globe hundreds of times thinking about the distance of things.
Yeah… I mean, if I went back in time and did it all again, I would still do all those things but despite my best attempts to prepare myself and two toddlers for what was up ahead, we were still a grand hot mess at several parts of this international flight. All in all, I have to give it up to these little Oxley ladies because they did amazingly all things considered. They were so well behaved in the airports and with the help of stranger angels along the way… we managed.
Did I shrug as Mya ate her fifth little gummy bear packet because she was listening so well in the airport? Yes…. and did she then throw up that sugary junk in the middle of night all over her blanket? Yes.. yes she did. I stood there in dimmed flight lighting, consoling young Mya who was freaked out by her vomit and tummy ache while holding Morgan who was finally asleep on our red-eye journey, trying to figure out how I was going to clean up this mess and keep the baby sleeping. Just as I tried to accomplish both of those things simultaneously, a mom from two rows back showed up out of nowhere and offered to hold Morgan and the man sat next to us joked with Mya and cheered her up as the flight attendant and I cleaned everything as best we could.
The next day we found ourselves in the line to exit the airport in England. Hundreds of flights, including our connection flight to Portugal had been canceled and we found ourselves without our luggage and without a hotel for the night. Just before this moment in line, while I was finding out about the cancellation, Morgan, hanging in a front-worn baby carrier was crying for a snack. Without thinking through the entire situation I handed her an oreo cookie and continued my conversation with the airline people. She ate that cookie and immediately passed out asleep, still in the carrier. I joined the line of other flying families likely with a look of desperation on my face. I couldn’t reach the wipes which were in my enormous backpack and my poor toddler was dangling from my chest with chocolate smear covering the entirety of her little face. “Is this okay?” I asked them. “She’s never fallen asleep in the carrier like this!” Her neck looked all crooked and uncomfortable. “She’s sleeping! She’s breathing! You are rocking it mom!” a sweet lady said to me, guiding along her own little litter. Eight parents immediately offered me full packages of baby wipes and insisted I keep them.
My best friend from Cambodia, Rebecca, has family in England and her dear Auntie and Uncle took us in for the night. I cannot explain the level of care I felt that evening outside of London. They scooped us up and just graciously mothered and fathered us with the most loving certainty. Auntie Sam went so far as to search for my new flight, enter in all of the information and confirm that I had a new seat in the morning. The girls, who slept great on the red-eye, were of course up the whole night, wide-awake from 2am on. I was trying everything I could to keep them quiet and engaged in our beautiful guest room and prayed that we didn’t wake our tenderhearted hosts who I am sure lied to us the next morning when they said they didn’t hear a peep. I will never forget their generosity in our moment of need.
The next day made it all worth it though when we finally arrived, running into Matt’s arms and reuniting for the first time in over a month. The relief and fullness we felt in that moment was incredible. Things were finally as they should be. They were righted; like a framed picture that had been tilted for the last month, finally moved back into place.
A lot of people these days tell me how “strong” and “amazing” I am. They are surprised that I took the girls on an international flight on my own. They empathize with the challenge of parenting solo after a full-days work every day. They see my determination to keep the girls on the road to success despite the hardships in our family’s current path. They imagine being far away from their partner/father for so long and understand the ripples that has on daily life.
It’s not amazing. There’s no other choice to be made. There’s no other direction except moving into tomorrow and there’s no other option than doing our best. It’s not amazing; it’s messy! The flight wasn’t instagram worthy and it isn’t going to make it into any parenting journals. It was our best and with help we arrived and we managed to stay pretty calm and sweet to each other but that’s about it! I’m not baking cookies at home or know what to do when my daughter asks me questions about death but I answer them and I do my best to just be there with them today and help them feel safe that tomorrow is going to be okay too. It’s not amazing; it kinda sucks… and that’s okay.
I was talking with Megan this weekend and she was saying the same thing. She was saying how people keep telling her that she and Matt are amazing for staying by their mom’s side this whole time and advocating so diligently and relentlessly on her behalf. She said, “I don’t feel amazing. I feel tired!” and “What other option is there? What other choice could anyone make?”
And I remember when my mom was sick with cancer I was amazing and when I read a poem at my dad’s funeral I was amazing and when I left my ex husband I was amazing again. Matt was amazing when he stood on the front lines. Diana was amazing as she worked two jobs to support her young children as a single mom. This amazingness… in actuality is the grind of going forward.
When someone offers me this statement, unless they are someone who is really in it with me, it actually tends to shuts down the conversation instead of opening it up. “Thanks.” I say or offer an anecdote about our trip that doesn’t properly capture any heart or truth to it. To me, that statement tells me they don’t understand and don’t really want to. It’s like when someone says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” after someone you love has passed. It’s not rude, it’s just the end of the conversation usually. When my mom had cancer and I would meet another person who had a family member battling cancer they would immediate say something very different than everyone else who would awkwardly dance around polite nothing-filled sentences. “Cancer fucking sucks.” is the jist of it. That – my friend – is a conversation opening. Understanding the mess of it all and the nuance of complicated relationships and feelings that go along with an experience is what allows for the bridge to be created between two people in conversations about hard things.
My real friends though don’t fluff me up with adjectives that don’t do the experience it’s honest justice. They don’t even offer their labeling of my experience. They just listen, help as much as they possibly can and stay present with me through it all.
I think of women who are on their 8th round of IVF or families who have escaped a war-torn country and moved their families across the world. I think of kids battling cancer and people who leave abusive relationships. Amazing right? It’s so much more than amazing. Amazing doesn’t touch their experiences. Amazing actually makes their work small. Their un-chosen, un-desired work is a web of many feelings and millions of moments that are as diverse as the people they are placed upon.
We are once again a tilted frame, waiting for the day that Grandma comes home and Matt falls asleep in the bed next to me. We keep moving forward and we keep hoping that we will be righted once again.