In my experience, the travel home is easier on the kids than it is on the adults. The kids have traveled recently, so they know what to expect, and they haven’t been sleeping well. They look forward to things like the meal, juice, and the movie. They are able to sleep when they’re bored.

For us parents, we’ve also been sleep deprived, but we have to be available for help with food, toileting, and making sure none of our kids are kicking the back of someone’s seat. In our case, we typically drive to my parent’s house not far the airport a day or two before we leave on our trip. On the way home, we drive straight back home. This means our return trip is always hours longer than the trip there.

Our return flight was boarding a little after six a.m., and my husband and I got up with less than three hours of sleep. We made it to the airport without any trouble, thanks to the generosity of family and a friend who were willing to wake up before dawn to help get us there.

When the woman who was checking boarding passes saw us, her lips pursed and went off to one side as her brows lowered in annoyance.

We went up immediately when our flight was called for boarding; typically families with small kids are boarded first. This woman asked us to stand to the side and started checking tickets for the other people in line. Finally, she let us back in line and sent my husband and 6 of our kids through, then again gestured me to the side and started checking other travelers.

My family waited by the glass doors to the tarmac as other people flowed past, waiting for me to join them. I was too surprised and confused by what was happening to even know how to respond. She knew we were all together. She had purposefully separated us because she didn’t like us and didn’t approve of us. It was clearly a form of punishment.

Finally, a woman behind me told the woman checking tickets to let me through. The tension finally snapped. She checked my ticket and the baby’s and let us join the rest of our family. I don’t know how long I would have waited otherwise. I was about to say something when the other woman spoke up, but I’m glad she said something first. I may not have had the courage.

After the woman intervened on my behalf, I stepped forward, saying, “I need to be with my family.” It didn’t come from a place of strength and defiance as I’d intended, but sounded weak and lame.

For our connecting flight, since we’d be leaving the country, we needed to fill out departure forms for each person in our party, which unfortunately we failed to do ahead of time. Filling out those slips of paper felt like such a waste of time. The airline already had all the information we had to write down. With a small change in their system of doing things, they could have printed out the slips already filled out for us to quickly sign. Instead, we had to write and rewrite tedious strings of numbers and everyone’s names when we could have been boarding the flight.

For the most part, our second and longer flight felt muted. The kids were low key and able to sleep on and off. I even dozed for much of the flight. Someone on the flight had gastrointestinal distress, which reminded me of this article (hilarious, but warning, there’s some language), but it was my singular relief that it wasn’t anyone from our gang. We opened up our air vents and breathed through our sleeves as needed.

One stewardess took it upon herself to be the infant safety belt enforcer, although my baby was sleeping comfortably in a front pack that was far more secure than the ill-fitting orange belt parents with lap infants are presented with. For take off, the woman demanded that I wake my baby to remove him from the pack in order to place the belt on him. She left to check other passengers and was replaced by another stewardess who kindly told me with her eyes to leave the baby alone.

For landing, I wasn’t so lucky. The legalistic stewardess was back, and this time made sure the baby was awake and removed from his carrier and in the orange belt before we started our descent. Fortunately, he didn’t cry, but if he had, it would have been her fault.

Immigration is always a little awkward since my husband has a green card and the rest of us are citizens. This only matters when we take an international flight or when a Very Unpleasant Person gets elected. We had to get in the line with other non-citizens and subject ourselves to the whims of the machines that fitfully read one’s passport and print out a slip that allowed us go see an actual human being.

The young man whose line we ended up in was strangely compassionate. I say strangely because whenever you are traveling with kids and someone treats you with unexpected kindness (especially after the experiences I had that morning), it feels like a gift. When we had to step aside to fill out more forms, he told us we wouldn’t have to wait in line again, to the consternation of the man at the head of the line that grew behind us as the young man helped others and we did our forms.

My dad and brother, bless their hearts, met us at the airport. Although New York had been dreadfully cold while we were gone, the day we returned it was rainy and oddly warm, which was such a relief. My mom had sent a bag of snacks for our drive home. We loaded up our truck for the ride, not fully cognizant of it being a Friday afternoon near New York City.

Hours later, through fog, rain, and traffic, we miraculously made it home. Despite a six hour drive, no one had needed to stop to pee or eat. The baby had awoke to cry briefly once or twice, as did our three year old, but never for long. I slept on and off, guiltily trying to be supportive of my husband as he drove, knowing he must be equally exhausted.

When we got home, the Littles were so tired that we were able to bathe them and put them to bed without the further delay of a meal. The older kids were able to make a quick meal, then go to bed themselves. It was dark, and we had to be quiet, so there’d be no unpacking.

Instead, we sat quietly on the sofa, freshly showered and in our pajamas, and watched a show over Indian take-out.