Spring Break

Why it’s still worth it—even from row 33

Spring break is upon us.

Devices are charged and loaded with hours of entertainment. I’ve officially given up on making two kids share and splurged on another $50 Fire tablet—an investment in sanity I can’t believe I resisted for so long.

My oldest said to me recently,
“I love the flight. I get to listen or watch whatever I want and sip on my free drink and have a snack.”

I love that she loves it.
I love that she knows it’s a little special.
I love that she hasn’t overcomplicated it yet.

And—somewhere along the way—I’m starting to love it too.

We’re outta here!

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There was a long stretch of time when flights were not something to look forward to.

They were logistical puzzles.
Endurance tests.

When do we shoehorn in a nap?
Do I change the diaper here, in my seat, and accept the side-eyes—or attempt the upright coffin of the airplane bathroom, haunted by the ghosts (and germs) of 50 previous users?

You brace for the spill.
The tears.
The possibility of barf. Or pee. Or screaming.

Your nervous system doesn’t sit down when you board the plane—it stands at attention.

Even now, I can feel a bit of that muscle memory. A quiet vigilance that tries to keep excitement at bay.

But we’re not there anymore.

And I’m starting to wonder—what if I let myself feel the shift?

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Because here’s what’s also true:

I am the keeper of the reservation confirmation codes.
The boarding passes.
The itinerary.

I make the packing lists.
I ensure we have enough headphones—with the right charging ports (oh, the terror when you try to plug a USB-C into a lightning port).

And sometimes it can feel like the juice isn’t worth the squeeze.

But then something strange happens after we return.

The trip lingers.

Not in a scrapbook kind of way.
In a felt sense kind of way.

There’s a half-life to these experiences—a glow that stays with us for weeks, months, even years.

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I think about the impromptu trip to Minnesota’s North Shore in the height of COVID.

Yes, there was a middle-of-the-night blowout at a campsite.
Yes, the mosquitoes were absolutely unhinged.

But those memories don’t dominate.

What rises more easily is the feeling:
Four kids under eight.
We did it.
The vastness of Lake Superior stretching out in front of us.
The awe of showing it to them for the first time.

That’s what stuck.

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Or the RV trip two years ago—swimsuits in Las Vegas one day, winter hats and gloves in Zion National Park the next.

Hard to pack for. Someone did barf in the RV.
Absolutely worth it.

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In psychology, there’s a concept sometimes called rosy retrospection—the idea that, over time, we remember things a little more fondly than we experienced them in the moment.

The sharp edges fade.
What stays is the feeling.

Which might explain why I don’t first remember the blowout or the mosquitoes or the claustrophobia of row 33 (why do they do that to young families? The final indignity).
I remember the feeling of we did it.

Which is maybe why we keep going—even when it feels like a lot.

Not because it’s easy,
but because it stays.

A deposit in our family’s memory bank.
A return that shows up later—
in the memory,
the story,
the way it lives on.

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I’m realizing these are our glory days.

The ones where we pack too much, forget something anyway, and still—somehow—end up exactly where we need to be.

Even if someone spills something.
Even if someone cries.
Even if I still, out of habit, scan for the nearest bathroom.

We’re here now.

And I’m excited.