I never hate my inlaws more than when I am trudging through the crowds at LAX with too many carry ons and things like mittens and boots.

I’m pissed off from the time I start to pack Christmas presents in November, to when I get off the plane disheveled by two unexhaustable children and their frazzled father. You can pack all the goodies and tricks in the world, but nothing sucks the life out of you more than flying across the country with two small children.

I’m fairly certain you lose years off your life from these trips. Throw in an airline that may or may not want you to feed your child, and the happy fun time that is the first snow of the year and you’ve got yourself a toddler and pre-k meltdown madness par-tay. Whoot fucking whoot.

But then something happens. Something happens from the time you wearily say hello to family and drag your overloaded suitcases through a vaguely familiar house to when you wake up the next morning to children eager to play with their only cousins, in from another country.

Something happens when your son sprints to a barn, something only seen to him before in books or zoos, because he knows there is something so special inside, he’s been waiting for nearly half his life to catch a glimpse. His grandfather has told him time and time again he had an honest to goodness real tractor, but the tiny boy just refused to believe it until he saw it for himself.

Something happens when you watch your daughter pull a gooey marshmallow off a stick and then giggle with delight as the ooze runs down her chin.

Something happens when only cousins talk about their favorite princess vs. their favorite car. Did you know Belle was faster than Lightening McQueen?

Something happens when your daughter runs and screams and chases her older relatives, only to be stopped dead in her tracks by a row of trees and a snowy sunset.

That’s when you realize it was worth it. Despite your bitching and moaning and suckers stuck in your hair and the chasing down of matchbox cars and crayons through 4 airplane aisles…it was worth it.

So as I ready my body and my mind to make the trip back from this other world to Los Angeles, I’m wondering how long it will take me to forget that it was worth it and begin my bitching.

***updated-you can also find me at DotMoms today!

Chalk one up for the Royal Family…we don’t even HAVE a member of our clan in the local high school, yet the youngest of our brood managed to get kicked out of the Fall Teens in Silly Costumes Singing stuff from Broadway Spectacular.

Yeah…the anal teacher that takes her job too seriously announced “concert etiquette” for the high school production before the festivities began, and offered cookies in the hallway for those children making any “noise” while the zit-faced, hormone pulsing youngins sang their hearts out.

My well behaved and appropriately dressed small people LOVED the music and kids dancing. So much so, that when the first little program ended, my daughter protested. We TOLD her there was more coming. More off key singing! More sequins! MORE jazz hands!

But the anal teacher kept talking.

We have such a great group of kids this year.
They really work hard and have fun.
Yada yada yada.

Princess Peanut Yells “MOOOOOOOOOOORRRRREEEEEEEEEE!”

Anal teacher says into her podium/microphone/dictator stand “COOKIE!”

…and the Royal Family exits in shame.

Oh! But the fun doesn’t stop there. As if getting kicked out of some high school production wasn’t ENOUGH, Count Waffles had to out do his sister in the hallway by bringing down THE TABLE of cookies. And then spilling his lemonade.

We rock.

Ever have one of those moments where you take a deep breathe, exhale, smile, and just know everything is right with the world? Mine are always immediately followed by overwhelming guilt.

We’re healthy. We’re happy. We’re fortunate. We’re the walking “American Suburban Dream Family” poster.

Tonight we watched in awe while the kids stared wide-eyed at the master chef in the “HAAAT! HAAAAT! Mommmmy! HHHAAAAAT!” local Japanese steakhouse. I have no doubt the Count will attempt cracking eggs on my spatula tomorrow morning, all while explaining to me (in his now, very informative and condescending 3-year-old tone) “No way Mom. The man at the place with the fishies did it this way, so I can too! I HAVE to do it like that. That is HOW you do it!”

Then at Ben & Jerry’s at the Suburbia Required Town Center, the Kaiser and kids were dancing to oldies blasting through the ice cream shop while I giggled and snuggled and had to force myself NOT to scream at the top of my lungs “MY LIFE IS FUCKING WONDERFUL! DO YOU SEE THIS, EVERYONE? THIS IS HAPPINESS!”

…but as always, my smugness was smacked by that bitch reality when the Count held his penis through his shorts and his oldies dance became the “keep the pee IN” shuffle and knowing his fear of LOUD flushing public toilets, someone was going to have to brave the local restroom…while someone else calmed what was bound to be a shrieking 16-month-old, aghast at the site of one of her parents leaving with her brother.

That entire thought process reminded me that the Count will be quick to meltdown in said public toliet, because only moments before his cherry garcia-topped-with-gummy-bear bliss, he was torn-kicking and screaming-from a toy truck, cleverly packaged with a book at suburbia’s book shop. Or coffee/music/toy/card/dvd/pen/journal mega-store, whatever you prefer.

So after the pee and shriek and clean-sticky-kids-after-ice -ream tag team by the Kaiser and I, we arrive back at the minivan to find that the Count left his toy from the Japanese steakhouse in the mega book/coffee/card/body of hoffa/cd mart.

Sensing we just don’t need the row of flashing Japanese fake teeth that will surely send us into seizures later, we play dumb and vaguely answer the Count’s desperate cries of “BUT WHERE COULD IT BE, MOMMY? I LOST IT? OH, MOMMY. I LOST THE SPECIAL SURPRISE FROM THE PLACE WITH THE FISHIES!” with “eeerrrr. ummmmm. I’m not sure where it could be….ummmm…..you must have left it somewhere…..ummmm. oh, yes, I am so sorry you lost your very special toy (that you’ve had for less than an hour and cost 2 cents to make) I’m sure another little boy will find it where you lost it and he will be soooooooo happy. So don’t worry sweetie.”

Now safely back home, having endured tears but minimal screaming over the loss of the crap toy, I read from one of the new books we dutifully purchased after rock-star trashing the children’s section of the store.

Both kids snuggle on either side of me. One nursing, the other listening to every word. I turn the pages like a pro and wonder, again, how I got so lucky and feel my heart bursting through my skin.

The Kaiser sits next to us and I wish there was a photographer hiding in my kitchen to quickly capture this American Suburban Family moment. You know, for the next poster.

And then I realize the baby isn’t really nursing, she’s sucking a finger while she pinches my nipple, and hitting me with some hard plastic case. And the 3-year-old? He’s listening, but with his fingers in his ears because he’s afraid of the story.

The Kaiser looks at me over all the nonsense and we catch eyes. Roll eyes. Laugh.

Maybe we’re not the poster family after all. But I’m not complaining.

Happy Anniversary honey.

It’s good to be home.

Florida can take it’s “Florida Cracker Farm Supply” trucks. I’ll keep my Los Angeles nutjobs.

In case you can’t make it out, it says “Jesus is the Bomb…that blew up Lucifer’s face.”

That made the ride home easier after the “horror we shall never speak of” from Tampa to Los Angeles via Delta.

Let’s just say there is a plane up there now, much more colorful than it used to be. Not to mention a Mom with some new tats. And many passengers really unhappy with a Queen and her screaming meemees.

Back to my regular bitching once I get some sleep.