No. 7: That One Time My Husband and Children Left Town for Five Days

A reminder to have a grown-up sleepover, let go of pride and renew your passport.

the coffee I scooped up after dropping my entire crew off at the airport at 5am.

A couple weeks ago, we looked at the calendar and realized for the first time just how insanely long Fall Break really is. In my mind, it was just a week, so I planned on tackling some chores, enjoying much needed rest and maybe doing a craft or two so the kids felt like they had an adventure. But in actuality, it was a week plus the Thursday and Friday before (parent teacher meetings) and the Monday after (a homeschool day) which is a whole lot of time.

Oshiomogho saw an opportunity. 

It has been nearly three years since he’s been able to go back to Canada—back home. Border restrictions were so intense during the pandemic that his parents couldn’t meet Zeameh until weeks before her second birthday this past Spring. We have missed home dearly and once all restrictions lifted last month, we set a January date to make a special pilgrimage back. 

This would give me time to renew my passport (which I made a note to do last month and promptly forgot about the next day.) 

January suddenly seemed too far away, though, and O said, “what do you think about me making the trip next week?” I was thrilled. I thought it would be the perfect time to go—the kids and I would hang back and he could enjoy his friends, lay on the couch in his parent’s house enjoying his moms cooking and his Dad’s music and the childhood home that holds all his memories. 

Then he thought of how desperately his parents have been wanting the kids to come visit and he asked if the older two could join him. “They’d love that. Good idea,” I said, booking the last remaining complete row on the airplane. I packed their suitcases and set out hats and jackets, dug out their headphones and mad libs and coziest socks. I moved all my meetings that week to Z’s nap time and prepared for some sweet days of one-on-one parenting that is so rare with three babies. We were all set. 

O had been hinting that everyone will be so sad if Z didn’t come. Most of them have never met her, after all. He’d joke, “I’m just gonna pop her in my suitcase!” Or “think of how much fun she’s gonna have with her cousins this weekend!” I gave these remarks a chuckle and literally not a single real thought of consideration. My husband taking our 7,6 and 2 year old on a flight and across the border alone? While I sit at home and twiddle my thumbs? It just never even crossed my mind as an option. 

The day before the flight, Oshiomogho held my hands in his, got down on his knees and said “I wont ask again and if you say no, I’ll drop it—but can Zeameh please come with us?” I didn’t understand. He said “can you tell me the reasons why you don’t want her to come?” 

I opened my mouth, then shut it. I needed very important, very compelling reasons to surface-AND FAST. 

“She’s just too young to travel without me!”
“I thought we were trying to save money, another ticket is the opposite of that!”
“She might get overstimulated and not be able to find comfort.”
“Traveling with three kids by yourself is just a lot.” 
“I don’t want to miss out on our family meeting our baby for the first time.”

Each argument was weak at best. They were all non-issues. The truth is, our kids are phenomenal travelers. Planes are the only place they get to watch shows on the iPad so they remain completely unbothered from wheels up to wheels down. They’re fantastic listeners and Zeameh loves people so new faces aren’t overwhelming, but life-giving. O is the most capable man I’ve ever met and would be able to travel with seven kids on his own without batting an eye, let alone our three. 

When I really considered the root of my grasp on Z not making the trip, it was fear of the question, “what will everyone think?”