It was, what felt like, the single longest day of my life.

Okay, allow me to clarify that: the single longest day of my life since I birthed a human.

It’s been so damn long that here I am, well past 2a.m., still up. That’s what happens to me when I’ve had a long day — there’s no crashing early. There’s me, soaking in the sound of silence and calm in to the late night hours.

The short: FOH was, in baby comparison, a good traveler today. Read: which means for FOH, it was a bit of a rough, touch and go kind of day.

He just hasn’t been feeling himself these past couple days. I’m chalking that up to good ‘ol D.C. allergies. When FOH doesn’t feel well, he is still remarkably awesome and easy going.

So long as you’re right there next to him.

This morning, after mucus puke numero dos, I legit wondered if I was insane to try to take him on an airplane. But I was hell bent on getting us home.

It was time. Leaving Maman is always nothing short of torturous but life needed to be re-resumed on this end.

The short: our flight was over three hours late. This meant an extra 180 painfully slow minutes sitting at a crowded ass gate.

Pee and food breaks were not an option because it was so damn crowded, I didn’t want to give up our prime real estate spot that was keeping FOH so entertained.

Correction: all our fellow prime real estators that were keeping him entertained. I tell ya, nothing renews one’s sense of humanity faster than sitting stuck in an airport with complete strangers and your baby.

Magic happens in these sorts of situations, People.

Pure Magic.

I deem this the : Magic Of The Baby.

Babies are safe, sacred ground. Everyone feels safe saying hi and smiling at a baby. Can’t say the same for grown humans. Babies are harmless, pure little joys of light.

Babies are a sure fire win. They think you’re funny and so damn awesome, even if you might be having an off, boring kind of day.

FOH was a hit. No one seemed to give two shits that he was crawling all over their feet, trying to eat their shoes and touching their faces and pulling papers out of carryons.

It was all, just so hilarious, to everyone.

I’ll take it.

Mama here was an inner wreck and mess of nerves, but at about 130 minutes into our long wait, I began to calm down. That is once my messenger of the day arrived a few seats over.

He moved with ease and comfortability, which I always think is a hard thing to do in a crowded sea of cranky travelers. He sat down, a huge smile on his face with a shirt that read:

Find Your Center.

The pure humor of this did not escape me. So that’s exactly what I did. I found my center. Which helped me to find my voice. Which in turned helped me to be honest in voicing my concerns.

When our flight was finally ready to be boarded, and we were all piling on the bus to take us out to the runway {yes, this is how the commuter jets take off from Reagan National}, I had no problem speaking up and asking for help.

And when FOH, mid flight started to melt down, only to find solace in his mini soccer ball that he started to toss around, I had no problem telling my fellow passengers, we either listen to him cry or we play along.

Everyone agreed to play along.

It’s these moments, the ones I completely dread happening, that when they happen, are the best teaching and practicing ground for self mastery.

For Centering.

For helping me to lean in and accept where I’m at in any given moment and that that … that is exactly the place I should and need to be at.