The kids and I are spring breaking this week so I haven’t taken time to write over the past few days. Sunday was Easter spent with Daddy, Monday was spring cleaning/purging of excess stuff (8 trash bags worth of clothing, out of my house), today was a beach/pool day, tomorrow is the wild animal park, and Thursday we are going to watch Caleb perform in a play that he’s been rehearsing with a children’s theater group. Busy times, good times. I’ve said it before, but if I could, I’d have them on vacation all the time.
Instead of continuing the story of our time in Paris, I’m posting a little something that I wrote the night we left, while trying to keep my brain busy before takeoff:
It’s midnight in the Bahrain airport and I’m sitting with eyes my eyes glazed over, pretending that I’m not going on an international vacation while my 4 babies are home asleep in bed. My polar opposite is next to me with a coffee, speaking French phrases into his phone, playing some sort of French language learning game. Super romantic, huh? I just have to get through this in limbo part. I hate waiting to fly, I hate the middle hours that drag on forever when all I want to do is be landed already.
I really just wanted to crawl in my bed tonight and watch a marathon of Revenge. I could read about traveling and sightseeing all day long, but I’m a homebody at heart.
When I’m too restless to watch a TV show on the plane — I was trying to watch Frasier, but good grief the live audience laughter is so distracting and irritating! How did we ever enjoy TV back then? The episode that was playing had a guy with a distinctive laugh who kept going HAHAHAHA! every chance he could as if he was hoping to hear himself on TV when he watched the show back. I heard you, guy. Everybody heard you.
Anyway, when I can’t concentrate and can’t sleep, I like to watch the airplane move along the map and watch the timer countdown: 1 hour and 12 minutes to destination . . . 58 minutes to destination . . . I’ve been better about flying lately, but this leg was a tough one for me. I wasn’t anxious, but I was uncomfortable. In my defense, it was a 7 hour flight, departing at 1 am (I can’t sleep sitting up) and I was carrying more stress than usual. So uncomfortable is still a victory.
Be back in a few days with more stories of Paris, inshallah!
