…not the movie. Ack. As if. I mean, I’d have to be on a lot stronger prescription drugs than I already am to be tied down and forced sit and watch that one willingly.
No, as in the feeling I’ll probably have halfway through the six-hour bonanza of fun that, I am sure, will be the flight to the wedding this weekend. Did I mention the flight leaves at 6? As in, A.M.? Which means we’ll need to start getting ready- oh, about yesterday.
I have heard about these Posh Spice moms, who have it all together- individual activity packets for their kids to keep them quiet, snacks and drinks all in less-than-three-ounce-travel sizes, the one-handed, fold-up stroller that stores in a neat travel bag, checks you in and serves Mommy’s mimosa virgin daquiri?
Ok, maybe I made that last one up.
But I have to say that I’m dreading the very real probability that two kids + a preggo (barfing)mom + six hours + one connection + the Atlanta airport + a directionally-challenged hubby seems like more math than I ever cared to do, as well as a recipe for the least-posh of adventures.
I just want to wear huge sunglasses, envelop myself in cashmere and drop-dead gorgeous little flats, and fend off the paparazzi while drinking my club soda with a twist.
Wait, that was my other life.
I just want to arrive in one piece (or, technically, four pieces). With luggage. And as few rushing tackles to the flight attendants on my way to throw up fetchingly in the airplane’s restrooms as possible.
A girl can hope.
Meanwhile, any tips on traveling a-la-Jackie Onassis? With kids?