I used to have a driver’s license photo that many women would envy. It was snapped just two days after I returned from my dreamy Hawaiian honeymoon, where I basked in the sun. My skin was a radiant golden brown, and my eyes sparkled, reflecting the breathtaking sunsets I had witnessed. I wore a wide, contented smile, filled with the joy of new love. The winds from Waimea Canyon seemed to dance through my hair, and I distinctly remember putting on a belt to keep my favorite jeans from sliding down—how inconvenient that was!
Fast-forward five years, and you would find me in an airport security line, burdened by a ridiculously oversized convertible car-seat carrier slung over my back. One hand dragged a wobbly suitcase while the other was firmly attached to my small son, who was kneeling on the floor and groaning in frustration. A large bag filled with snacks, crayons, and toys swayed precariously across my midsection, while the bags under my eyes seemed heavier than ever. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my shirt had ridden up above my midriff, but there was little I could do about it now.
This trip had been a challenge. Traveling solo with my 3-year-old to visit friends in New York, we encountered chaos somewhere between Milwaukee and Detroit. The so-called “Terrible Threes” hit hard on American Airlines Flight 312. After three days of tears, sleepless nights, and sheer desperation, all I wanted was to go home.
As we approached the TSA agent, a flicker of relief washed over me. We were almost through. I handed him two crumpled boarding passes along with my once-glorious driver’s license. He looked back and forth between my picture and me, squinting in confusion. After a long pause, he finally jotted down some marks on our tickets and muttered, “Close enough.”
“Close enough?!” I exclaimed, snatching the tickets back with what I can only assume was a fair amount of indignation, hoping my tangled hair would flick him in the face as I turned away.
We made it onto the final flight without further incident. Onboard, my son was finally calm, busy with his coloring books. I found myself staring at my driver’s license, where my carefree, glowing self smiled back. Had I really changed that much? Sure, the years of sleepless nights had taken a toll—my hair was shorter, my skin paler, and my face rounder—but it was more than that. In the photo, I radiated genuine happiness, a glow that was unmistakable. On that day in the airport, however, my frustration and exhaustion were evident.
I glanced at my little boy, who looked up at me with a sweet smile while he pinched his purple crayon. What does he see when he looks at me? I may never return to Hawaii, and I will certainly face my share of tough days ahead, but I refuse to let anyone mistake me for the weary traveler I felt like that day. I have so much to be grateful for, plenty of joy left, and an expensive new eye cream to help with the visible signs of fatigue.
This article originally appeared on October 3, 2015.
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Summary
The article reflects on the author’s journey from a blissful newlywed to a weary parent, contemplating the changes that come with motherhood. It emphasizes the contrast between past happiness and present challenges while highlighting the importance of recognizing joy in everyday moments.