Almost Missed Flights

We've never missed a flight due to our own mistake. It's never happened. Yet, somehow it is one of my greatest flying anxieties. I'm the guy who wants to get to an airport three hours before, while Jo is happy to arrive just in time to board the plane. It's one of the great polarising perspectives in our relationship.

As we spent the day negotiating how early we'd arrive at the airport, we suddenly found ourselves behind a collision on the drive into Dublin. Ten minutes pass. Then thirty. Then an hour. It's at this point the panic settles in. I call the bank to see what insurance the credit card offers. Jo looks up alternative flights (there are no reasonable ones for a few days). We're vocally upset.

And from back seat we hear a cheery Nora pipe up:

"Mommy, relax. Take a deep breath and be patient."

She goes on to demonstrate some belly breathing. Okay. We're raising a Buddhist monk. Even Maeve stops crying for a moment to bask is the not-yet-three year old wisdom.

The traffic lets way. We weave far too fast through the afternoon traffic and abandon our rental car in time to demand a seat on the first shuttle to departures. We beckon help as soon as we step foot within airport, crashing through bag check and security. And it's a kilometer sprint - full out - to get to our gate.

The flight is an hour delayed. Of course. We should have just listened to Nora.

We're in Croatia now. Share more tomorrow.