Jen's Column / Airplane Moment

Hey all,

I haven't posted a column in awhile, so here's a recent one... :), Jen

P.S. No work-out yesterday at all. Will swim today! And maybe run. It looks GORGEOUS outside!

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Everyone has a travel story. I'll spare you the details of mine, except to say that last Thursday my boys and I arrived at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport by 9 a.m. for a flight that didn't end up leaving until 6 p.m. By the time we shuttled to our final destination — my grandma's house in Arizona — we'd been en route for roughly 15 hours.
It was a long day.

I'm enough in awe of flight to leave my complaints at the door. I have no idea how anyone manages to get a 400,000-pound bus in the air and keep it there, much less propel it through the sky at 500 miles an hour. And, of course, if it means my ride will be safer, I'm not begrudging any delays. But there's no denying that 15 hours is a long time for two little boys to wait.

The kids gave it their best effort. They really did. For the first few hours they were perfect gentlemen, polite and funny. Just past midday, though — after the forty-seventh time Bergen asked, "Is THAT our plane?" — I noticed the edge in Christian's voice when he answered, "Bergen! It's not our plane! Our plane is in Omaha! I've told you that a hundred times!" (Don't you hate it when you hear yourself in your kids' voices?)

Then there were the periods of prodding and poking. The pushing. The arguing. The audible sighing. We've had more fun getting flu shots.

I have to say, though, that it was all worth it once we got in the plane. And not only because we were finally going somewhere.

About an hour into the flight, Christian took off his sweatshirt and said, "Here, Bergen, you can use this as a pillow if you want." And then he rolled it up, put it under Bergen's head, patted his shoulder and said, "There you go."

It was one of those "awww…" moments of maternal pride, but I didn't say anything for fear of breaking the spell. I'm glad I just shut my mouth and kept reading my book, because it got better.

About 30 minutes later, Christian leaned over to Bergen and said, so quietly, "Bergen, do you want me to read to you?"

"Yes," Bergen answered, as his big brother lifted the armrest between them and they scooted together. Bergen rest his head against Christian's shoulder, fit his 6-year-old body snugly against his big brother's arm.

I tried to make it look like I was still reading, but I wasn't. I was wrapped up in the intimacy of the moment — watching them as intently as they were watching the pages before them. The book, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, is all the rage with the third-grade set. It was obvious that Bergen felt like he was finally part of the club.

I watched Bergen's enraptured stare, took in the expression in Christian's voice, listened to their giggles during the funny parts. Immersed in their story, my sons were oblivious to the their fellow passengers, to the plane, to the world outside the window. To me.

On days when it seems like the fighting will never end, I tell them, "You are brothers forever. You will be each others' oldest friends. It will benefit you to be kind."
Too often, it feels like they're not listening. That I'm failing them when it comes to this most important lesson. But at times like this, I see that they are brothers and friends.

That moment in the plane — in that unlikely place 32,000 feet above Colorado — might well be my proudest parenting moment all year.