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| After a grueling 12-hour flight, the girls arrive in Hawaii in the aloha spirit. |
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Dallas, the place where I currently call home, is a city in the Southwest where hitting 40 degrees Celsius in the long summer months is no newsmaker. It's hot ― really hot.
And so, after much contemplation and calculation (with three kids, vacation means a lot of money), we decided to take off on a vacation to Hawaii.
The trip sort of came together suddenly because my parents in Korea decided on a month-long vacation on the islands all on short notice.
Hawaii, meeting the grandparents, and ditching the scorching Dallas weather for one whole month ― I couldn't ask for more.
My kids and I are used to plane rides, both long- and short-haul, so I didn't really sweat much about it. I was so cool about it that I didn't even buy my littlest Lauren's seat.
She is still under two, so I knew this was pretty much my last chance to get her to fly for free. On my lap.
I realized once again that the U.S. is pretty darn big when I found out that the duration of the flight from Dallas to Honolulu was almost nine hours. That's longer than what my parents flew from Korea, a whole different continent.
Still, it was all good. We're talking about Hawaii here.
With just two weeks left till the big departure, I spent day after day mentally planning and visualizing the trip and everything I would need for the flight.
Domestic flights on U.S. airlines don't provide much option for food, so I knew I had to pack a lot of food.
Everything from rice, sandwiches, chips, fruit and candy to apple sauce, you name it. I packed it. I think I had enough food in my carry-on bag to feed all the passengers on the plane.
I packed two spare portable batteries to make sure the two iPads, the single most important entertainment system for the kids, won't die on me. That would be the worst nightmare ever.
The day finally came and I woke up at 3 a.m. to make sure we could all eat breakfast, get ready, pack last-minute stuff and leave the house on time at 6:30 a.m. for the 9 a.m. flight.
As planned and imagined, I had everything under control at the airport, from check-in all the way onto the airplane. The kids were well-behaved and I couldn't be prouder.
And then the nightmare began.
The plane, which was supposed to depart at 9 a.m., didn't leave at 10 a.m., not even at 11 a.m., still not at noon until finally it started moving close to 1 p.m.
Weather and technical problems were the reasons the passengers were given confined in the plane.
Now, I am a seasoned traveler. I can handle flight delays.
But not when I have three hyper and sleep-deprived kids with me.
Delays are doable when you're at the terminal, but definitely not when you're stuck on the plane. Not for four hours.
Even before the flight took off, the girls got so stir crazy that I had to break out my secret weapons (gummies and sticker books).
As I'm trying to recall the flight, which happened two weeks ago, it seems like the entire time I was stuck on that tiny economy seat feels like a blur. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing.
I know there were some extremely painful moments like when Lauren cried so loud and long ― so much that other passengers offered me help to console her ― that I wanted to jump off the plane.
But there were also some magical moments, too, like when all three girls somehow managed to nap for two hours. I still don't know how on earth that happened.
There's only one scene that I remember vividly ― the moment I met my parents upon arrival.
I am pretty sure I looked like I just got back from war.
I was beyond exhausted physically and emotionally, but at the same time so relieved to see mom and dad.
I spent 12 hours nervous and anxious as the sole caretaker of my three girls, but the instant I saw my parents, I became their little girl, too.
I just wanted to be hugged and that's just what I got ― a big bear hug from mom and dad, my mom and dad.
That, right there, was vacation for me.
Now two weeks into the trip, Hawaii is great and all, but I'll save the details for next time.
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