The first time I traveled alone with all three of my babies, I thought I was prepared. Diaper bags packed, bottles pre-filled, toys tucked neatly in the carry-on, and snacks for emergencies. I told myself it would be manageable. After all, I was their mother. Who else could do this if not me?
But nothing prepared me for what happened at 30,000 feet.
My husband and I had boarded the plane together with our three little ones—Emma, just two years old, and our twins, Noah and Grace, barely six months. From the start, things felt overwhelming. Emma was restless, wriggling in her seat and kicking the tray table. The twins were already fussing, their cries echoing in the cramped space.
And then, just minutes after takeoff, my husband leaned over and whispered, “I’m going to switch seats with someone. It’ll give me a little break.”
Before I could protest, he had already moved down the aisle to an empty seat several rows away. I sat there frozen, three small children pressing in on every side, the weight of it all sinking onto my shoulders.
