Strength noun. the quality or state of being strong; bodily or muscular power; vigor.2. mental power, force, or vigor.3. moral power, firmness, or courage.4. power by reason of influence, authority, resources, numbers, etc.5. number, as of personnel or ships in a force or body:a regiment with a strength of 3000.6. effective force, potency, or cogency, as of inducements or arguments:the strength of his plea.7. power of resisting force, strain, wear, etc
What is strength?
I've always thought of strength as those guys on the Ironman TV shows, you know, the ones where they have a race carrying a car or move a 500 pound ball. Strength is tall buildings with thick steel beams. Strength is soldiers in combat or firemen saving lives. Strength is a woman standing up to her abuser or a child fighting cancer. Strength is beautiful. Strength is one of those things that I always admire, but never truly understand.
Last night I learned a lesson about strength.
Yesterday we flew to Seattle, and by 'we' I mean me and the kids. For some inexplicable reason I decided that taking an evening flight with 3 kids (ages 5, almost 4, and 17 months) was worth the almost $200 per seat savings. Note: we only bought 3 seats because holding a 35 pound pile of wiggles and giggles on a 4 hour flight also constituted a brilliant plan. In another stroke of genius, I saved more money by not shipping our stuff or checking our bags - we simply carried on 4 people's belongings for a 2 week trip. The funny part is, had our flight not been delayed, this actually could have gone rather well. The kids are seasoned travelers, we pack light, and they are generally pretty helpful.
We arrived at the airport at 4:00 for our 5:15 flight. My wonderful husband dropped us off at the perfect spot. I only cried a little when we said goodbye. There was literally no one in front of us in the security line. All 3 of the kids politely walked through the metal detector one by one, and no one even fussed. We arrived at Gate A20 by 4:15.
. . . Only to find that our the gate listed a different flight departing for Madrid, Spain and a long, long line of unhappy people. Another passenger said, "If you're going to Seattle, they moved it to Gate A23. Ok, not too bad, but at A23 we found no evidence of a flight to Seattle. We trekked to the nearby sign board only to find that the flight to Seattle left Gate A23 at "estimated 7:30."
While I already felt tired and I knew the baby hadn't napped well, I fought back the urge to yell something or just cancel the trip and go home. The girls had spied a pretzel shop which I knew sold dairy free options for my food allergy kids. I explained the delay to the confused children and offered pretzels and a trip to the airport play area. They happily accepted. (To whomever invented airport play areas: You are the best person in the world!!!) Each little girl struggled to carry a bag as well as the pretzels and the little guy toddled happily along. We reached the play area with only a minimum of trouble, but I could feel the migraine starting. The monthly hormones combined with stress of disrupted travel and the back strain from carrying all the luggage started to add up.
We ate and played for only a few minutes before we needed a trip to the not-so-nearby restroom. (To the person who invented airport play areas: they should include a bathroom! Kids go a lot!) I had no choice but to take 3 kids, 7 bags, and some pretzels with us so a 3 year old could pee 4 drops. I insisted that everyone at least try and the baby insisted that he get to play on the toilet too. Thirty minutes later, we returned to the play area. The migraine hit and I fought the nausea hard. I decided that throwing up in the floor might be a better option than another trip to the bathroom. (To inventor: trash cans?!!??) Luckily that wave passed. A nice father sitting nearby struck up a conversation with me while my son and his daughter played. He even brought me a hot chocolate when he went to get his own drink. His wife was there to watch their child. Wonderful kind strangers are the best! Then the 5 year old had to poop. Yes, really.
Finally the time of our flight neared. I allotted 30 minutes to walk the 10 gates down the concourse. We loaded up, but by this point the kids' tempers had started to flare. I ended up carrying the baby and all but 1 bag. The pain from last week's foot surgery flared up badly and I could barely see to walk through the blinding headache. Tears filled my eyes as we trudged on. By some miracle we made it to the overcrowded gate after several stops along the way. It took the whole 30 minutes.
No empty chairs remained. I chose a relatively unoccupied plot of floor and started divesting myself of children and luggage. The kids all 3 obediently sat while I rummaged through the remains of the free snack pile in hopes of something dairy-free. After locating 3 bags of pretzels I collapsed on the floor beside the kids. A few tears leaked out as I obediently opened tiny packs of pretzels. The pain in my head overtook me and I fought the blackness tugging at the corners of my eyes. A grandfather seated nearby engaged me in polite conversation. My son made friends with an older lady and her dog. Our flight time moved 21 minutes later. I wondered if I would survive the trip at all.
When it came time to board I corralled the now-pretzeled kids and channeled their excitement for seeing Grandma and Grandpa. After the lengthy wait, they agreed to board the plane relatively easily. My 3 year-old made a friend in the boarding line and the 2 little girls giggled all the way down the jetway. I loved seeing her emerging social personality and the distraction helped us all get onto the plane in good spirits.
By the time we arrived at row 34, my arm ached from hauling all the baggage almost as much as my head hurt. I located overhead bin space and wrangled the suitcase and 2 bags into it. I settled the 5 year-old in her seat and then the 3 year-old and I sat down across the aisle with the baby in my lap. Luckily, watching the other passengers board the plane entertained the children while my mind relaxed a bit. All of the kids seemed happy and our seatmate turned out to be a sweet young lady who didn't mind a seat next to a wiggly preschooler.
With the airliner finally packed to capacity, the flight attendants began the usual motions while I made a quick trip to the lavatory. As we began to move, I sought the airsickness bag while hoping I didn't need to use it. I managed to turn Frozen on the seatback TV through my bleary eyes. Another harsh wave of nausea hit and all I could do was clutch the armrest and try to keep my pretzels down. My vision swam and I fought for consciousness. As I faded in and out, I tried to sound normal answering my kids' innumerable questions, secretly thankful for the built-in electronic babysitters.
Somehow the wave passed and a twinge of relief washed over my body. As I awakened from my stupor I noted that an hour had already passed. The flight attendants neared with a beverage cart and all 3 of my kids remained happy and pleasant. Thankfulness flooded my mind that I had lasted through another wave with no problems. I sipped some ginger ale and accepted more pretzels from the flight attendant. The remainder of the flight defied my hopes in terms of small-child behavior.
About 45 minutes before landing my 5 year-old fell asleep. My 3 year-old didn't sleep at all - surprisingly she handled things really well with no potty accidents, no tantrums, and a cheery, helpful attitude. My son snoozed on me a bit towards the end of the flight. He has never slept on me his entire life, and I have to admit, it felt really sweet. I entertained a momentary sense of loss that I had never let him fall asleep curled up on me.
A few minutes before landing I began trying to wake the oldest up, and realized that she slept soundly. (Aside: I'm that mom who never, ever bends bedtime at all. Not one time have my kids ever fallen asleep at a friend's house and been carried home. They've only stayed up past bedtime for the 4th of July fireworks. They don't sleep in cars and never miss a nap.) Even after a long sit on the runway, finally parking, and re-parking, the plane, and most of the passengers deplaning I couldn't rouse her. I felt awful that I wouldn't be able to just carry her off the aircraft like I noted other parents doing with their sleeping kids. I realized that with three kids and the luggage, not only did I need her to wake up, but she would have to walk and hopefully tote her bag.
I finally managed to get her up enough to stumble down the aisle while I hauled the grumpy baby and the 3 year-old walked with a nice lady who held 2 of our bags. Once inside the airport I secured a giant backpack on the 3 year-old, convinced the half-awake 16 month old to walk, and stacked the duffels on the rolling suitcase. Looking around it dawned on me that we had a trek in front of us from the far end of the airport to the pick-up area where grandma awaited.
We inched along with the kids doing their best to just keep moving. The baby stumbled, my arm began to shake under the weight of the bags and the oldest child just cried. I know that she's easily overwhelmed and struggles in new situations. I felt awful watching her fight with her emotions as she bravely trudged through the cold airport. My younger daughter's back hunched under the bulk of her large bag, but her joyful spirit remained.
As we neared the exit, my luck ran out. She couldn't carry it any further. She'd tried repositioning it, but her little body just could not handle the weight any longer and I could see her struggle, not wanting to disappoint me. I located a small space beside a wall and we stopped so I could try to figure out another plan. I looked at my tired kids, our luggage, and the crowded busy airport pondering what to do. My own back ached and my limbs threatened to give out. My toe throbbed in pain, but I had no choice other than to keep walking. As I reached to take the bag from my frustrated toddler, my son took off after a dog another passenger walked nearby. I turned to catch him.
When I looked back, I watched my 5 year-old, with tears running down her exhausted little face. With a wisdom beyond her years, she sized up the situation, saw my need, and stepped up to offer a solution. As she took up the backpack from her little sister and put its weight on her own shoulders, she whispered "Mommy, I'll take it."
Tears flooded my tired eyes and we walked those final steps to the car - not the tears of illness, exhaustion, or sadness, but instead tears of pure pride. I witnessed the definition of strength in the quiet whisper of a girl who looked beyond herself as she reached out to help someone she loves.
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