You're going skiing, which you have mistakenly imagined was a cheap and easy alternative to Prague / Salzburg / Vienna -- where you could have been celebrating Mozart's 250th birthday, by the way -- and the Fairmont Orchid on the Big Island, though you could have stayed the fifth night free. But no, you're headed up to see the grandparents (one alpha, one beta) and let the kids have some fun in the snow.
You put off packing the night before because it's Tuesday, so the kids want to watch American Idol. Then you take a Lunesta to deal with the sleepless stress of not having packed (not visiting your parents...?) By the time you get up to pack, you have an hour left before you have to leave for the airport. As you debate whether or not to take the piano music and the recorder for the four year old (you do -- WRONG ANSWER!) you try to find all the cords for the various phones, laptop, dvd player, psp, ds (which you jam into your bag, only to discover the phone isn't turned on and the wireless doesn't work in your parents house because they don't know their own code.)
Feeling competent, you manage to find the special spray that the twelve year old HAS to have to brush out her hair. You even deduce that a rough draft colonial report is due upon your return and a flash drive with all the magical information needed may or may not be missing. And finally, you have three kids rolling their own bags through LAX and you think - you're not THAT beta of a mom after all...
Which is when it all falls apart. Your bags explode on the security screening. Your four year old freaks about taking her shoes off. You leave your boarding passes on the wrong side of the gate. By the time you get your belt scarf sweater jacket shoes off - everything you couldn't fit in your bag because of all the cords, hair conditioner and musical instruments -- your kids are wandering away from the other side of the gate. You finally get through, run after them, with your belt in your had, dropping your computer, arms full of sweaters and giant Oprah's pick furry boots, not to mention your daughter's funny pippi longstocking ski hat stuck to your head -- and your twelve year old turns around, rolls her eyes, and booms as loud as only a seventh grader can --
"MOM! PUT YOUR SHOES ON MOM! YOU'RE WALKING AROUND THE AIRPORT IN BARE FEET! THAT IS SO DISGUSTING!"
And as you look up from the middle of the terminal -- realizing that yes, the screening area is pretty far behind you now and you still haven't managed to get those furry boots back on -- you see Alpha Mom Extraordinaire, from an old family of alpha moms, the kind with buildings named after their families -- and she says, "I wish I had my camera."
Ah, Springtime in LA.
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