We travel. We have one home in California and one home in Illinois and we go between the two. DH and I have family in Ohio and Virginia, Kansas and Missouri, South Carolina and Florida. We want the girls to see all fifty states before they leave us for their own adult lives. They have been to 23. (Holy cow, we better hurry! A leaves us in five years!) We fly a lot and, as a result, I have become a jerk.
"What do you mean this airport doesn't have a United lounge?"
"What do you mean this United lounge doesn't have oatmeal?"
"What do you mean I'm not in boarding group 1?"
"What do you mean my purse counts as a carry on?"
"What do you mean I have to pay for my dinner? This is a six hour flight - from 4-10 pm - for crying out loud."
"What do you mean we have to walk to the Uber spot? Why can't Uber come to me where I am standing?"
"What do you mean we have to choose between these rental cars? Why can't I have that one over there?"
These are questions I find myself asking, and then I feel like a poop.
I have to work on remembering that I am privileged to live here, privileged to travel, privileged to teach and be a mama and a wife. Shut up and smile.
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