When I was 20 there was no greater objector to the practice of plastic surgery than me. I’d declare that I would grow old gracefully. I would not cover my gray hair, I will embrace every wrinkle. Today at 34, I think that girl was more than a little naive. I haven’t gotten any work done, nor have I colored my hair, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility that someday I might. And I definitely don’t judge others for it as I may have once. I get it now–why people would make those choices–in a way I didn’t before. In a way, it’s hard to understand the aging process until you start living through it.
I would gladly spend an entire day juggling my kids on the sofa watching new releases while somebody brought me snacks and Bloody Marys at regular intervals. So why is it that the idea of flying long haul with my children makes me want to cut off my legs at the knees?
I believe that, ultimately, it’s an unfounded fear. That beyond the inconvenience, the schlepping, the stale air and the fact that we may emerge on the other end wearing pasta sauce, ginger ale and possibly pee, what we’re really worried about is the unknown. Will our children decide to be cranky that day? Will they fail to sleep? Will we lose something? Will they have an accident? On us? How many days will it take us to adjust on the other end? And after we return home? Is it worth it to spend nearly a month in flux for every 10-day vacation? More