When Flying Feels Like Falling

I'm not sure I've mentioned our next planned trip. Later in February, I'm packing our bags and flying with my little family to Oregon to visit Chris's parents in their new home. Longtime readers may recall that Chris hailed from Tucson, the hot hellhole without leafy trees. Last summer, his parents announced that they were buying a house just down the street from his Grandma Dixie in Medford, Oregon.

We had already planned on making a trip to Tucson in January to visit the parents and show off the children. Since they aren't there anymore, going to Tucson on purpose seems silly. So the tickets are bought, and we're off to Oregon, a climate far better suited to this purebred Finn. They even got a big snowfall last weekend.

Flying with the children (with two layovers each way) will be challenging and adventuresome. My goal for packing is only one carry-on. I think I can do it with the right bag. I may find a little bag that Ben can carry himself and to keep his trucks and trains. But one big carry-on for the four of us. I'll be using my handy-dandy Moby wrap to carry Anna around.

We have a plan, we have a goal, and I'm scared anyway. I've never flown with children, and I've heard all the nightmarish tales of screaming children and infants, frustrated and angry passengers who didn't pay all that money to hear my babies wail, and horrible hold-ups at security check points.

That's why I'm looking at this as an adventure, not really a vacation.