Alaska Airlines, you'll have to pack your bags without me this time.

Nearly every day, I find myself doing quick price checking on Alaska Airlines to see if I can afford to get out of town.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, I confirm discover to my surprise that I can’t afford the flight and I close the search engine.  But that doesn’t stop Alaska Airlines from sending me an e-mail telling me they are ready to go to XXXXXX! (insert placed I just price checked).

The e-mail is chipper and condescending.  That’s great Alaska Airlines that you’re ready to go to Seattle for a mere $800 round trip from Juneau when just two months ago I paid $142 round trip to fly the exact same route on your award-winning airline.

As a lifelong Southeast Alaskan, I have been held hostage by Alaska Airlines for as long as I can remember.  I won’t deny the fact that they offer great customer service, some of the best pilots in the world, and a good mileage awards system.  This is why even when Delta moved in to Southeast Alaska and a price war ensued, I still chose Alaska.  It is a choice I regret now that Delta has pulled their winter service and prices have once again skyrocketed to exorbitant costs.

Let’s do some price checking.  Please note that I searched all of these tickets one-way for July 3 and chose the lowest option available, no matter the number of stops. Let’s face it, when you’re looking to fly cheap, you don’t really care how many stops you have to make.

Seattle to Dallas:

THREE HOURS AND FORTY-FIVE minutes of enjoyable Wi-Fi and USB power at your seat for only $207!  Not to mention the cheese and fruit plate for purchase.  A screaming deal!

Seattle to New York:

A 5-hour direct flight for $301.

Seattle to San Francisco:

$120.  Please note that two hours plus a few minutes is the same flight time as Seattle to Juneau.

And finally, Seattle to Juneau:

Complete with a five-hour layover in Sitka for a grand total of $402.

I understand there are a lot of factors that play into pricing aside from flying time and jet fuel.  But I still call B.S.

For once, I’d like to be able to rely on the fact that I will get a fair priced ticket for my two-hour flight south.  I’m not asking for $142 round-trip tickets, but I am asking for fair.  There has to be a happy medium.  You are our choice Alaska Airlines, even when you are our only choice, we still choose you.  Please, treat Alaskan’s with respect.  After all, you’re named after us.

It's Okay to Disagree--Just Vote.

Like most kids, my girls are sponges who absorb any information thrown their way.  They are extremely gullible convincible and can be talked into most anything.  Lena was once convinced I needed Ginsu knives because the commercial on TV said every kitchen needs them.  Ginsu knives aside, their latest infatuation and opportunity for absorption is the election of our new mayor.

Sadly, our former mayor passed away only a few months into office, creating an unexpected scramble to fill the mayoral seat.  I liked our former mayor.  We used to work in the same building and we’d talk about fishing and politics.  He’d smiled at my then baby and toddler and herd them back to my office when they escaped down the hall.  I was really excited to see what he would do as leader of our capital city, and his death was extremely sad and unfortunate.  I don’t want to be voting for a mayor, because I already voted for the candidate I wanted.

Without reading any information on either of the new candidates, my vote was swayed by the majority of my like-minded friends who almost unanimously chose the same candidate.  Pretty soon, this candidate’s name was plastered in my world and I barely knew the other candidate existed.  Yard signs went up, fundraisers were hosted, the former mayor’s son made a public endorsement, and my Facebook newsfeed was scattered with endorsement for this candidate.  I still knew nothing about the candidate except all my friends wanted her to win—and so did my children.  Say what?  How does a six year old and eight year old know who they want to be mayor?  Easy, they absorb it from their surroundings.  Apparently, their step-grandparents are big fans of this candidate and held a fundraiser which my kids attended.  I’ve been hearing from my girls non-stop that I should vote for this candidate because that’s who they are voting for (if they could vote).

Yesterday, before driving over the Douglas Bridge, the girls and I drove through a lively intersection overflowing with supporters for both candidates waving and holding signs encouraging horn-honking and interaction.  Truthfully, this has always made me uncomfortable.  Aside from the fact there are enough distractions while driving, I loathe getting stuck in the intersection and being forced to awkwardly make eye-contact with someone while I’m busting out Adele’s “Hello.”  I usually do my best to stare straight ahead and restrain myself from flipping them the bird because I know they are probably really nice people, but right at that moment, I just find them annoying.  Their signs are not going to help me choose a candidate, so for me; they may as well not be there.  My girls however think it’s awesome, so I find myself shrinking lower into my seat as they wave to the supporters and even blow them kisses (okay, so they blew one kiss, to their step-grandfather, but still, kisses were blown and not by me). 

Noticing I was not participating in the hoopla, my girls once again told me who they were voting for and told me they were glad that even though our family is divided, we are all voting for the same person.  This is where I put on the brakes, figuratively speaking.  I was quick to inform them that they had no idea who I was voting, which left them speechless.  Stunned, Lena asked me who I was voting for.  I told her the truth: I wasn’t sure.  Yes, it was less than 24 hours until Election Day, but I still hadn’t done my research.  I asked them why they wanted their choice to win and why they were voting for her.  They said they didn’t know and that they are only voting for her because that’s who their dad, step-mom, and step-grandparents are voting for.  I pushed them harder and asked them if they knew the candidate’s stance on anything.  After explaining to them what “stance” meant, they still couldn’t tell me anything.  I told them that I planned on doing some reading and research that evening to get some facts about each candidate before making my decision.  Lena amazed me by asking if I could share those facts with them so they could decide who they wanted to vote for. I told her that was an excellent idea and I was proud of her for not feeling she needed to vote for who her parents want to win.  I then blew the cover off the whole discussion by admitting that the majority of the time, I don’t vote the same way as my parents! (Gasp!) Aurelia was quick to pipe in “and they still love you.”  Yes, they do still love me.  It may have been questionable during the 2008 presidential election whether I’d ever be allowed back in my parent’s house, but we all got over it and at the end of the day, we still love each other, no matter our political differences.

Rocking the "I Voted" Sticker

Last night, as I lay in bed sandwiched between my girls, I read some stats on the candidates and came up with my decision.  It doesn’t matter who I chose because at the end of the day, I know I made the right decision, and that decision is to just get out and vote—no matter who you choose. 

The bottom line is, we are all different and have different beliefs, but I love you just the same. 

PS- There’s always this option:

Being Able to Celebrate is the Best Gift of All

Ah, birthdays. Once we become adults we are taught to “dread” our birthdays and not make a big deal about them.  Another year older, more wrinkles, more gray hair, what’s there to like about that?  I’ll tell you what’s to like: you’re here.

I have friends who downplay their birthdays and make a point to tell their family and friends to not make a big deal about it.  Me on the other hand?  I want to stand out in the street dancing and singing, “It’s my birthday!  I’m still here!”  I want to have a party with my family and friends and celebrate life, my life and their life.  We are here!

I loved birthdays as a kid because let’s face it, my mom threw the best birthday parties.  They weren’t fancy, no pool or movie theater rental.  They were simple homegrown sleepovers where mom would make homemade pizza, we’d play silly games that my mom made up and we’d all cram on the floor in our sleeping bags and wake up to mom making waffles in the morning.  I can recall every friend that was at those parties, but I couldn’t tell you a single gift I was given, which is exactly how I want to remember it. 

As I got older, my mom stopped throwing me parties and I jumped on the “it’s just a birthday” bandwagon.  No biggie, nothing to see here.   But then, I got cancer.  The first birthday after I beat cancer, an ad for the American Cancer Society came on the TV with famous people singing Happy Birthday.  The idea behind the commercial was, imagine a life with more birthdays and less cancer.  I sat on my couch with my peach-fuzz hair growing back and sobbed my eyes out.  I would never again, ever, take my birthday for granted.

I have a friend celebrating a birthday today. A friend who spent the last 2 ½ months in intensive care fighting for his life and today, on his birthday, he is being discharged.  I sent him a Happy Birthday message and he replied back, “Best birthday ever!”  I then told him they will be the best from here on out.  I truly do believe they just get better with age.

I don’t expect my friends or family to throw me huge parties on my birthday, in fact, I don’t expect them to do anything or even remember, but that doesn’t mean I won’t walk around grinning like an idiot floating high on the knowledge that I’m still here and I am HAPPY to be another year older. 

When people get excited about your birthday and want to do something for you—be happy!  Don’t give them the “I don’t do birthdays” or “let’s just get this over with” look.  They want to do something because they love you and they are happy you are on this earth.  We never know when our last birthday will be, so celebrate each one like it’s the best one ever.

Me, smiling big on my 39th birthday

Let it Go

It’s been three months since I wrote my kick in the butt post and I feel it’s time for a check in to see how everyone is doing with their self-butt kicking.  I’ve heard from so many folks how that post hit a nerve—in a good way.  Well, that just makes my little old heart swell.  I believe it’s so important to reflect on our life and take inventory on how we are doing.

So, how are we doing?  Since my own New Year’s Eve butt kick motivational speech, I’ve been trying to focus on happiness and letting things go.  Yes, I am going to say it.  Let it Go!  (Cue parents everywhere covering their ears and cringing).   As my One Hot Mess Alaska Blogger friend Libby refers to her, “That bitch Elsa,” has a good point.  I hear from so many friends that they just have too much going on.  Between jobs, kids, commitments, appointments, and life, we just don’t seem to have any time to breathe.  I look at my friends and they all look so tired and worn out— sorry friends, but it’s true.  It looks like they’ve been hit by a bus, or hit a bus. 

Speaking of hitting buses, a few months ago, I did just that.  Yes, I plowed my SUV mom-mobile right into a parked school bus.  Granted I was going under five miles an hour, but I somehow managed to total my car. I don’t know what happened other than I got vertigo, started seeing double and drove for a mile and a half pretty much unconscious before I snapped out of it and convinced myself it would be a good idea to pull over— right into a school bus.  I actually said out loud and very matter-of-fact to Aurelia, “Oh, look at that, momma hit a bus.”  In her head, I’m sure Aurelia said, “No shit, Sherlock,” because that’s the type of thing my five-year old would say if allowed.

I spent the day in the ER while the doctors tested me for strokes, MS, and cancer; and the police tested me for alcohol and uncontrolled substances.  Cause you know, the first thing I do every morning is wash my crack down with a bottle of Crown before driving my kids to school.  After having me stand on one foot while looking up and counting backwards by seven, mind you I find these tasks difficult while sober, they failed me and went straight to the blood test.  Negative. Take that coppers.  No one could find anything wrong with me, but I had a hunch what was going on.

The night before the incident, I was lying in bed envying celebrities who check into hospitals for exhaustion.  How awesome would that be? Someone would bring me food.  I wouldn’t have to make it, I wouldn’t have to serve it, I wouldn’t have to jump up ten times during eating it to get someone more milk or stand guard in the bathroom enforcing hand washing after toilet use.  I would be oh so polite and say “please” and “thank you” and “this tastes amazing” as I eat my instant butterscotch pudding IN BED while watching Judge Judy.  For a girl who has spent a lot of time in hospitals, it’s not a good sign when you start to wish you could rest in one.

Simply put, I was drained and I needed to slow down.  Between one full-time job, one part-time job, being a single-mom of two active girls, and wrestling with my Type-A personality which is always trying to please, I had shifted into overdrive and burned out.

Where is that balance of getting done what absolutely needs to get done and letting go of the extras while still finding time to enjoy life?  This equation is a difficult one for me to solve and I’m always open to ideas.  I have found meditation really helps me.  I find it very hard to press the mute button on my overactive Type-A brain.  My mind wanders like crazy from “What I am going to eat for lunch” to “Did she really say her cousin was in prison” to “Was that tumble weed or a giant fur ball that just scurried across the floor” to “Man, I need to brush the dog” to “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a maid” to “No, no, if I could have one splurge, I’d prefer a live-in massage therapist” to “Why are my eyes open” to “Let it go and just breathe!”

I can last anywhere from 5-20 minutes and over time; I’ve become better at shutting my brain off.  I tell myself, “That’s nice, move on.”  I don’t get frustrated at my random thoughts anymore and once I can acknowledge and dismiss them, I can go back to concentrating on breathing.  What a difference it makes.  My head is clearer and I can be productive without feeling overwhelmed.  Just like appointments and meetings, I schedule in time to meditate and do things I enjoy.

I also have to say no a lot more, which can be very difficult, but it has improved my life tenfold.  Saying no can be so hard when you want to be a pleaser, which I always do.  But there comes a point where saying yes to everything takes a toll on your body mentally and physically.  Most of the time, it’s not even the act of saying the word “no”, it’s just the act of not volunteering and saying “yes” which as it turns out, is totally okay to do.  Someone recently told me if they didn’t volunteer to be the chair of a committee, no one would and the whole thing would fail.  I told them, “So it fails.”  Yeah, it would suck, but eventually, someone else may step in and fill those shoes if they deem it important.  I told my friend if it’s causing him that much stress, then he’s probably not being affective at it and it’s not worth it to always feel bad or guilty for not giving 100%.  Let it go.

I also make sure to listen to plenty of music and get outside as much as possible.  Sometimes it’s just stepping outside and sitting on my porch with Yasha the wonder dog after I’ve put the girls to bed.  Yasha is an excellent listener and sometimes she will even let me lay my head on her and use her as a pillow as I gaze up at the stars.  From my porch we’ve seen the northern lights, shooting stars, goats on the mountain, porcupines scurrying across the road, and seals playing in the channel.  All things I’d be too busy to notice if I was too busy to stop and breathe.

I’m also a big believer in keeping your heart young.  Which reminds me, *shameless plug* I’m singing at the Alaska Folk Festival on Sunday April 12^th at 8 PM.  Coincidentally, one of the songs I’ll be singing is Brandi Carlile’s, “Keep Your Heart Young.”

Remember; secure your own air mask before assisting others around you.  If you don’t take care of yourself first, everything else goes to hell in a handbasket.

P.S.- Lena's Birthday is Saturday.  She has a class party on Friday, a family dinner/celebration on Friday night, and a kid birthday on Saturday.  I am making ONE cake.  Hear that universe?  One freaking cake.  Dixie cup ice cream for the class, cupcakes made by a dear friend for Friday night, and ONE single layer (no boats this time) cake by me.  See, I'm letting it go.

New Year’s Eve Motivational Speech 2015

The past four New Year’s Eves, I’ve had the same resolution- work towards being happy.  This is a work in progress and I have cancer to thank for this. 

For as much as I hate cancer and how it can rip lives apart, I have to admit, for me, getting cancer was an awakening.  I can say this because I had one of those cancers that has a 90% 5-year survival rate.  I was lucky—extremely lucky.  This April will be my fifth year in remission and I still thank my lucky stars I got one of the “good” ones.

So where does the sense of awakening come from?  After my diagnosis and the initial shock, sadness, and rage wore off; acceptance sunk in.  Acceptance caused me to pause and evaluate where I was in life.  Was I happy?  No, and I hadn’t been for some time.  I had given up my career in museums and my dream of being a museum director to get married, have a family, piecemeal jobs together (usually working two part-time jobs, if not three), and I was in an unhealthy and unhappy marriage.

We all change as we get older.  Our bodies change, we become more mature (maybe), our values may become more pronounced, and heck, we may even start to like Brussel sprouts (if there is enough bacon fat added to the skillet).  But deep down, the bright light that makes up all that is you should still be present.  My bright light had been extinguished years before I was diagnosed with cancer.  I was a mere shell of a person on autopilot just trying to get through the day.  I was working to make everyone else happy while completely neglecting my own need for love and nurture.  I wasn’t receiving it in return and I had forgotten that it is something we all need to thrive.  I continued to take care of my physical body.  I exercised and ate a mostly organic diet making great attempts to stay away from hormones and preservatives.  But when you are deprived of love and support, it’s hard to be mentally strong.  I lost all sense of who I was or used to be and went on autopilot where it was easier to feel nothing than it was to notice love's lack of presence. 

I continued to smile for pictures and trained myself to laugh without emotion.  My parents noticed it.  My long-time friends noticed it.  They all hinted that I wasn’t the same, that something was wrong.  A small few who knew the details of my situation urged me to wake up and be the bad-ass girl they used to know.  But, the girl that didn’t take shit from anyone and wasn’t afraid of anything was nowhere to be found.  The girl that remained was frightened, worn-down, and timid.  The old me would have noticed my situation from a mile away and told the girl to wake up and look at what was going on around her.  But I was no longer that girl.

I clearly remember the defining moment when I relit that flame inside me.  Spending a lot of time in hospital waiting rooms and chemo infusion rooms, I rediscovered my love for music.  I hadn’t been listening to it much and I certainly wasn’t buying anything new. When I got sick, a dear friend, who was dismayed that I had not heard the last four Indigo Girls albums, burned them for me and mailed them to me.  And, just in case the IGs are reading this, I did end up purchasing them for myself.  The first one I listened to was from Poseidon and the Bitter Bug which had just come out.  I was coming out of a four day chemo haze and had just returned home from dropping my mom off at the airport.  The song Fleet of Hope came on and the world around me paused.  I walked over to my arctic entry, which at the time had the only view of the water from my house. I stared out at Gastineau Channel and swam in the lyrics, and then drowned in my own tears.

"When I was a girl
All of my fancy took flight
And I had this dream
Could outshine anything
Even the darkest night
Now I wait like a widow for someone to come back from sea
I've always known
I was waiting for me”

It was a slap in the face, waking me up from a six year blur of unhappiness.  At that moment, I realized how precious our life is and how lucky we are every day to be here. Damn lucky. If we’re here on this earth, we should be happy.  I decided at that moment I wanted to be happy and I wasn’t going to let anything or anyone get in my way.

I had a long way to go.  It was February and I wouldn’t be done with my treatments until the end of July.  I also knew after that, I had to make some big and difficult decisions.  I listened to Fleet of Hope almost every day, and with each treatment, I realized I was one step closer to healing not only my cancer, but my soul.

The past four years has been a long and hard haul.  I’ve had to let go of resentment, anger, and regret— which has been a huge challenge.  Hardest of all though was learning to feel again.  Finally out of my numbness and autopilot, I was forced to face head on all that I had been through since I had stopped feeling years before.  I spiraled into deep depression, something I had never experienced.  Let me tell you, that stuff is the real deal.  It is dark, it is painful, it feels hopeless and you can’t just snap out of it.  I found my way out with the help of new friends who took me in and showered me with love and kindness.  I also had the help of a wonderful therapist and anti-depressants.  No shame.  If you have diabetes, you need insulin.  If you have a broken arm, you need a cast. If you experience depression or have any other type of mental illness, you need help as it just won’t go away on its own.

I learned you can’t just wake up one day and put on that thrift store sweater and Doc Martins from high school and say, “Today I am going to be the person I used to be, the person I used to love and be proud of.”  Nope, it doesn’t work that way.  It takes time to re-ignite that flame and sometimes you have to work extra hard to make sure it doesn’t go out.  I’ve had old friends tell me they feel like I’m back; I’m the girl I used to be.  But I know I’ll never be that girl again who looked out into the world with unjaded eyes ready to take it head on.  Honestly, I think I can be better than that girl.  Knowing what I know now, I appreciate things so much more and I’m more cautious about diving in without knowledge of what rocks lie below.  I still dive in from time to time, but I try to remember to wear a helmet.

I’ve regained so much confidence in the past two years. This past year, the girl whose idea to cut down the trees in the front yard to expose the view of the water, which was shot down time and time again, took a chainsaw to those trees and now she sits with her coffee in the morning gazing out at the water, letting light into her windows and her life. This girl who was taught to pinch pennies and made to feel guilty spending money on herself, took a frivolous trip to France and Switzerland exposing her daughters to the world of travel and culture while feeding her own desire to travel.  And the best part is, she can enjoy it all, feel it all, and be confident in her decisions without feeling scared or guilty.

I hope I never have to go through cancer again.  Going through nine months of surgeries, chemo and radiation are no cakewalk, and I have lasting side effects that are always there to remind me.  I don’t have much dexterity or feeling in my fingertips due to the nerve damage the chemo caused.  I have two prominent scars from surgeries and a blue dot tattooed in the middle of my chest placed for radiation alignment.  And if those daily reminders aren’t enough, I get reminded a few times a year when I have to wait for the results of my post-cancer blood tests.  I have a love-hate relationship with these reminders.  I see the scars in the mirror and they remind me of what I’ve been through.  I'll admit, the past four years have come with some major hiccups that try to knock me down.  But each time I'm faced with a challenge, I look at my scars and remind myself I've been through worse.

Am I thankful I got cancer?  Nope.  But I am thankful for the second chance I’ve been given to wake up and enjoy my life.  As we go into 2015, I urge you all to look at your life and take a good hard assessment.  Are you healthy?  Please take your health seriously, I can’t stress this enough.  Have a weird mole?  Get it looked at.  Feel a bit run down and not sure why?  Go see your doctor.  Experiencing depression or anxiety?  Get help— it’s nothing to be ashamed of.  Are you happy and feeling like you are living your life the 18 year old version of you would be proud of?  If not, what changes do you need to make to feel again and care enough about yourself to live your life to the fullest and be happy?  Don’t wait for something catastrophic to come along and kick you in the butt like I did.  Instead, bend over and let me do it for you.  Consider this your official kick in the butt live your life and be happy motivational speech of 2015.

Get out there.  Live your life to the fullest.  Never stop loving yourself.  Realize you are worthy of being loved and feeling happy.

 

 

First Class and Decent Sushi

On our recent trip to France and Switzerland, I wanted to have all accommodations and travel logistics in place prior to leaving Alaska. Traveling with a five year old and seven year old is a far cry from my 1999 European backpacking expedition of  hopping on and off trains with little or no plans and sleeping in dodgy hostels, park benches and train stations.  Aside from having accommodations in place, I also wanted to book train tickets in advance.  When I booked tickets, I somehow managed to book first class tickets for two out of three of our trips.  Paris to Angers was first class, as was Angers to Geneva.  The atmosphere in first class was completely stuffy and quiet—not the best place for kids who are excited to be on their first train.  First class was filled with French businessmen who gasped and tightened up as we boarded the train as though we were wearing shirts that read “WE HAVE EBOLA!”

Prior to boarding the train, I pulled my girls aside and had a talk with them about how we board.  This is what we covered:

• Move quickly and stay close to mom. 
• When I point to your seat, sit down and don’t argue about which seat you’d rather be in. 
• Don’t ask me immediately for a snack as I’m struggling to remove the backpacks from my back and put them on the luggage shelf. 
• Don’t poke your sister. 
• Don’t scream “SHE POKED ME!” when your sister pokes you. 
• Don’t ask to use the bathroom in a loud voice.

Upon boarding the train, we had an amendment to the rules adding, don’t talk above a whisper.  As the men stared at me and my children, it became my goal to prove them wrong.  I envisioned them telling me at the end of the ride, “Your children were perfectly behaved.”  This did not happen, but I have to say, my kids were nearly perfectly behaved, and we managed to get a few smiles.  There were only a few times Aurelia spoke loudly and there was only one squirmish that ended quickly when I threatened to “turn this train around.”  They had no idea I didn't have any power in turning the train around so they got their act together quickly.

Our second first class trip was from Angers to Geneva.  I had the same talk with them and stressed the part about being quiet.  All was well except for Lena getting sick, puking in the bathroom, and then coming back to loudly and proudly announce, “Mom!  My puke was chocolate puke!” 

Our third and final trip was, dare I say, second class.  The girls did not know about different class tickets–  that is until we sat in second class.  Immediately there was a difference.  The seats and accommodations were nearly identical to first class, but the atmosphere and people were a far cry.  The biggest difference was that my children were no longer the only children.  Immediately we were thrust into noisy families complete with whiny kids, crying babies, and short tempered parents.  Food was smashed all over the seats and floors and our seats were jostled with kicks and side punches.  I was excited to not have to constantly give my kids the “sssssshhhh” finger, but my kids were not amused.  Lena sat glumly in her chair staring at her pan au chocolate.  I asked her what was wrong and if she had wanted a plain croissant.  She looked up agitated and said, “Mom, I want to sit somewhere else.”  Assuming she meant she wanted to trade seats with me so she could be forward facing, I told her all she needed to do was ask politely if we could swap seats.  She looked at me like I was an idiot and said snarkily, “No, I want to move to a different car.”  They both went on to ask why this train was so different from the others.  I explained that before we sat in first class and now we were in second.  Aurelia, who had been trying to get comfortable for a nap looked up at me and said, “That’s why I can’t sleep!  I can only sleep in first class!” Well, well.  The same topic was revisited at dinner that night when Aurelia was growing tired and wanting me to hold her at the table.  I reminded her that if she had taken a nap on the train, she wouldn't be this tired.  She informed me that if I had booked a first class ticket, she would have napped, so technically this was my fault.

The last night we were in Paris, the girls spotted a sushi restaurant and asked if we could eat there.  Not wanting to eat sushi my last night in Paris, I told a white lie and said the sushi in Paris wasn’t as good as the sushi in Juneau and let’s just wait until we return home.  They seemed okay with this, but Lena did ask the waiter in a very French restaurant if they had sushi.  I am fairly certain there was spit in Lena’s food.

As we boarded our flight to Iceland, Lena asked me why some people were boarding and going left and we were going right.  I told her that first class was at the front of the plane.  She jutted out her hip, stuck her hand on her waist and said, “Mommy, we told you we didn't want to travel in 2^nd class!” Aurelia, who decided to look on the bright side added, “At least we get to go home where they have decent sushi.”   The stewardess overheard this exchange and gave me a look like, “You’re in trouble.”  I responded with a silent, “I know I am.”

Planting the Bug

In a little over a week, I will be boarding a plane from Juneau to Paris with three small backpacks and two small children in tow.  As we get closer to the trip, my nerves start to get the better of me.  On the best of days, even with a normal schedule, I struggle as a single-parent.  I use the term “single-parent” loosely as I am fortunate to have an ex who is a very devoted father who I share custody with.  He has the girls half the week and I have them the other half.  On the half that I have them, I consider myself a single-mom, just like on the half he has them, I consider him a single-dad.  It is a challenge, and I thank my lucky stars that I am not a single-mom seven days a week because I can honestly say, I don’t think I have the ability to do it.  I would manage, but I would most likely spend a lot of time rocking back and forth, clutching my knees to my chest on the floor of my bedroom crying. 

So why am I embarking on a two-week vacation to Europe with a five and seven year old?  Good question.  I admit when I bought my tickets this summer it was a moment of insanity.  It’s been a long time since I have bought tickets that require a passport, and I've never bought them for my kids.  The moment on Orbitz.com when I actually clicked purchase, I nearly threw up.  I was shaking with excitement, fear, and this overwhelming thought of “What the heck have I just done?!”  At that very moment I realized I was probably crazy.  For starters, I’m not rolling in money; so truthfully, putting three plane tickets on my credit card was weighing on me when I thought about all the other ways I could spend the money.  Practical things like house repairs, car repairs, or the rainy day fund (which I keep telling myself I need to establish).  I have always felt guilty spending money on “fun” things.  It’s the way I was raised.  Even at 37 (I can still say I’m 37 for one more week), I still worry what my father will say. My parents were never frivolous with their money and my dad didn't really start spending money on fun things for himself until he entered his 60s.   Family vacations were always spent ferrying to and driving through Canada to visit family in Washington and attend Fish Expo so dad could buy fishing gear.  There were no trips to Hawaii, and definitely not Europe.  I haven’t told my dad I’m going to Europe.  I know my mom has told him, but I haven’t mustered up the courage to tell him myself I’m spending my money on a fun-trip instead of replacing the rotten wood on the side of my house.

The other fear I had was that aside from me thinking I was crazy, others would think I was crazy too.  Don’t let crazy out of the bag- and with purchasing these tickets, I did just that.  I imagined people saying, “Why waste your money taking kids on a trip they won’t remember?”  The thing is, out of the several dozen people I've told, only one person made that comment.  Instead, I've been blown away by the encouragement I've received and the comments of, “Wow, that’s awesome!”  Even when telling my mom, I prefaced it by telling her my cancer taught me life is too short and you never know when you won’t have opportunities and I don’t want to have my life filled with regret.  I expected some hesitancy on her part, but even she said, “You’re so right.  Life is short and you need to enjoy it while you can.”

So, why am I taking my kids to Europe?   I am not taking them so they will remember going to the Louvre and seeing the Mona Lisa or to take pictures of them standing in front of the Eiffel Tower so I can show it to them later and say, “See, you were there.”  I’m taking them there so they can experience something different than what they know.  There is an awkwardness that accompanies traveling, especially for the first time.  And it’s not that I want my kids to be uncomfortable, but I want them to realize that things are not just what they know them to be.  They are going to hear a language other than English.  They are going to experience smells that you can only smell in a city that is over 10,000 years old. They are going to see their mother confused while trying to communicate.  They will eat foods they've never heard of and can’t pronounce. 

My favorite professor and friend, Dr. William Husband, told his Russian history students on the first day of class, “I don’t expect you to leave this course remembering every date and name, but I do expect you to walk away with a general understanding of the history and culture.”  That sums up my reasons for taking my girls.  They may not remember all the specifics, but they will have a memory of the feeling they get while traveling to a new place. 

Traveling and experiencing different cultures has left an impression on me far greater than any diploma I can frame and hang on my wall. It has helped define me and leave me craving more with the understanding I have so much more to experience and learn.  If I can share this experience with my girls, and plant the travel bug in them; all the  better.