On Saturday morning, we got up and started to get ready.  Will went out to get some breakfast, while I packed up and got the girls dressed.  We had to leave by 9:30am for the airport.  When he came back with breakfast, we paused to eat a quick bite.  It was weird.  I was in high gear, trying to pack, get dressed, get the kids moving, eat, sort through stuff and not forget anything.  He wasn’t doing much of anything.

At 9:00 am, I asked him to pick out his outfit, so we could pack the rest.  I frankly don’t remember what he said about the clothes; all I remember is his next statement.

He looked at me and said, “Oh, did I forget to tell you?  I’m not going.”

With a slightly stunned look on my face, and in slow motion, I turned to him and said, “You’re not going to the beach?”

He replied, “That, too.”

At this point, my brain is reeling and my body is still in slow motion.  “Wait,” I’m thinking to myself, “He said he’s not ‘also’ going to the beach.  Is he not going to Ireland?  Wait.  No, that can’t be.  Wait.  No.”

I’m trying to have a conversation with him about what he means by what he’s saying—and I quickly realize that I need to repack.  From his actions and words, I understand that he’s not going with me to the beach or to Ireland.  As this realization hits me, I turn and see that I have five carry-on bags, five suitcases, two car seats and stroller.  And let’s not forget two babies.  My world is officially crashing in around me.  And, I have 30 minutes to figure it out.

He’s telling me that he’s talked to an attorney, and that he wants out of the marriage.  He’s telling me that he has an apartment in London where he’ll be living and working.  Heck, he’s apparently already booked alternate air travel.

Meanwhile, I’m still tending to the babies.  I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to do.  Is this really happening?  Do I even have time to fully grasp the situation?  And, the harsh reality dawns on me that I better reduce my five carry-on bags to three, or I’m never going to survive these flights on my own.  I’m going to have to travel to Hilton Head by myself, and then overseas by myself—with two children under the age of three.  I frantically start to re-pack.

I’m realizing that I can’t just downsize.  We’re in a hotel room with no ‘home’ to send things to for safe storage. I couldn’t just decide not to bring things.  I have no clear idea what his plans are at this point, but it’s painfully obvious they don’t involve us.

Mentally, I’m going through my tick-list.  I’ve got things with me like my fine jewelry, since I did not want to put it on the ship to Ireland, or in storage for fear it would be stolen.  I had my laptop computer and other work files.  I had summer clothes for me and the kids, and fall clothes – because when we landed in Ireland it was going to be chilly.  In fact, I had to have enough clothing to last us for 6 weeks while the rest of our clothing was on the ship sailing to Ireland.  And, of course, I have diapers, books, games, and changes of clothes, and snacks for the kids—just for the airplane.  Anyone who’s ever traveled with babies knows that you can never over pack for a flight.  There is nothing more miserable than an unhappy baby on the airplane.  I always prided myself in my ability to ensure that my kids were happy and content on any flight I took them on.  And, this would be no different.  Even if it was going to kill me.

I managed to whittle the five carry-on bags to three by jamming the excess stuff into suitcases.  By 9:30 am, I was ready to go.  I suggested that I call down to the hotel front desk for a taxi.  He then offered to take us to the airport.

I looked at him with this incredulous look and said something incredibly sarcastic like “Ohh, gosh, hope it’s not too much trouble.”

We get to the airport twenty minutes later.  He pulls up to the United Departure lane at Dulles Airport and stops the car.  He pops the trunk and I start unloading the kids.  I put the kids on the sidewalk, and take out the car seats.  Meanwhile, an airport porter comes up to the car with his large flatbed trolley.  We load up the five suitcases, two car seats, stroller, and three carry-on bags onto the trolley.  I turn towards the check in desk, and hear Will get back in the car.

I’m standing there, holding my infant in my arms, my toddler standing by my side.  I watch my husband just drive away.  I look back at the porter who gives me a sideways look.  I don’t know if he knew what was going on, but he was in a rush.  The airport was humming and he had tips to earn. Quickly we followed him inside to the check in counter.  I stood in line, stunned.  I couldn’t believe he just drove away without a word.  Didn’t even say good-bye to the kids.  But, it had been an unbelievable morning as it was, so I don’t know if I could process this anymore than what happened earlier.

Standing in line, I begin to take stock of my situation.  I am standing in line for my flight with my one and two-year-old babies.  I have more possible gear than two people can manage, let alone one.  Thankfully the line for the ticket counter was moving briskly and the din of the busy airport has kept the kids mentally stimulated and not focused on us.

When it was our turn at the counter, I handed the United Airlines desk clerk my package of tickets.  Because we were traveling internationally the next week, I had our passports and those flight tickets all in the same pouch.  Juggling the two kids in line, I never thought to look inside and take OUT his tickets.  As she is rifling through the envelope of tickets and passports, she pauses.

She looks at me and says, “Maam, I can’t check you in, yet, since William isn’t here.”

Once again, feeling as though I’m in an NFL super-slow-motion play, I look at her and say, “Well, he’s not coming, since he just left me.”  And, suddenly it hit.  Saying the words struck the nerve that I couldn’t quite reach.  I begin to cry.  Tears are now finally streaming down my face as I look at this lady, who is now frantically trying to check me in so that she can get rid of me.   My toddler is tugging at my shirt, asking why I’m crying.  My baby starts to cry, because Mommy is crying…and Mommy isn’t supposed to cry.  We’ve now reached pandemonium.  Finally, a few minutes later, the clerk checks us in, and hands me back the envelope of passports and tickets.  I take a deep breath, throw back my shoulders, wipe away my tears, and turn away.

I put my baby in the umbrella stroller, strap the three carry-on bags to my back, and slowly walk through the airport with my toddler walking by my side.  We make our way to the gate, and as we are walking up, we see Will striding towards us.  I look at him with an absolutely stunned expression on my face.

He blandly says, “Well you didn’t think I was going to leave you at the counter?”

Of course I responded, “Yes.  Yes, I did.”

He then announces that he plans to spend his last few minutes before our flight leaves with the kids at the gate.  Fine, I think.  If this makes you feel better.  We get to the gate, and I begin to get the kids settled in a corner where I can easily keep tabs on my stuff and the girls in equal measure.

No sooner do we sit, then we hear: “Will? Will McKinney? Hi there, it’s me, Malcolm Linkstl”

Will turns to see someone named Malcolm that he knows from his job.  He walks over to where Malcolm and his wife are seated and spends the next thirty minutes talking with him, while I tend to the kids.  But, anyone traveling with two infants know, you don’t tend to them.  You corner them, play with them, feed them, soothe them, and do everything you can to minimize angst and fussiness.  Time clicks away, and just as he finishes up his conversation with this man, they call our flight.  So much for spending time with the kids.

As I sat there fuming over my situation and the hypocrisy of my husband, I realize that this is the kind of flight where we are going to have to leave the airport by walking out onto a metal landing, down metal steps and across the tarmac to the plane.  I had a sneaking suspicion that the airplane noise at ground level would be a problem for my kids, but did not realize to what extent.

When they started boarding our flight, I knew this was one of the few times that I could leverage the “women traveling with small children” status to get on the airplane first.  Quickly, I strapped my laptop bag onto my back.  I threw the jewelry, books and toys bag over my left shoulder and the snacks, bottles, diapers and emergency clothes bag over my right shoulder.  I folded up the umbrella stroller.  I picked up my infant and put her on my left hip.  At this moment, I’m carrying about 100+ pounds between the bags and baby.  I held the stroller in my left hand, along with the tickets.  My toddler held my right hand, standing by my side.  I must have looked like a combination pack mule and nomad with three bags on my back, a toddler on my hip and stroller in my hand.   Mind you, while I’m struggling to get all of these bags and kids situated, Will is standing there watching.  He makes no offer to help us in any way.

Slowly, we shuffled up to the gate clerk.  I looked at her eyes, and then looked down at my hand.  I was trying to motion her with my eyes that my hand was locked down—between holding the stroller and my infant, I couldn’t move.  She reached down, plucked the tickets from my hand and ran them through the machine.  It’s ironic, because she then held up the three tickets for me to grab.  I guess somehow in the ½ a second between taking the tickets and scanning them, she forgot that my arms are still immobile.  Anyways, she realized she needed to replace them back in my fingers, which she did.

Continuing our shuffling forward past the gate clerk, we made our way onto the metal plank at the top of the stairs leaving the airport terminal.  As soon as we stepped out, the noise from the airplanes was deafening.  Between the noise and the stifling heat over almost 100 degrees, my toddler started to scream, and froze.  She turned to me, and grabbed onto my leg.  She was not going anywhere.  As this is happening, I realize that there are people queuing up behind me, and I had better do something pretty quickly.

You always hear of these people who find extraordinary strength in times of crisis.  I remember there was a lady when I was a kid who picked up a car that had turned over onto her son’s arm.  Well, this was that time for me.   I’m a tall relatively thin woman. At this point in my life, my only form of exercise is chasing after my small children.  My genetics has left me with what I like to refer to as my noodle arms.  Long, lanky and not a lot of muscle.  My legs are also long, but I at least have some legacy muscle from running track for years in high school, and from my pre-baby years when running was a daily ritual.

Since I am holding my infant in my left arm, along with the stroller, the only thing left to do was somehow pick up my toddler with my right arm.  Slowly, I bent down, like a weightlifter doing squats with 100 pounds on my back, and grabbed her by the butt.  I dragged her little body up my leg and body until I could get my hand fully under her bottom.  Once I got her in my right arm, re-adjusted all the objects in my arms and on my back, I continued down the metal stairs towards the tarmac.

Somehow I made it down those stairs.  I continued taking step after step on the hot tarmac toward that airplane.  My kids have their little chubby arms wrapped around my neck, clinging to me for their dear life, and I’m clinging to the hope of reaching that airplane without tripping.  When we get to the bottom of the steep airplane steps, I turn and look back at the airport terminal.  I see him standing there, watching us.  He’s standing there with his arms crossed, just watching.

It dawns on me as I watch this supremely surreal scene that he could have helped me.  He could have asked the airline personnel for help for me.  He could have asked to help walk me to the plane.  Something.  He chose to watch me struggle.  Here I am dealing with this massive blow he just gave me two hours earlier, and it’s almost as if he’s reveling in my struggle.

At this point, standing in the excessive heat at the foot of the noisy airplane, with my infants in my arms and the weight on my back and I made a mental note to myself.  I thought, “Yes, we are definitely getting a divorce.”

I turn to tackle the airline stairs, and the first of my angels appeared.  A friendly stewardess approached me, and took a child from my arms and the stroller.  She helped me up those stairs and into our seats.  She brought me water, and told me it would be ok.  I said nothing to her about my situation, but I think she knew.  This was now the second time I let myself cry.

On some level, sitting on that plane, I felt like I had made it.  But, I also knew that I had only just begun.

Nicole Drapeau Gillen, Copyright 2016 All Rights Reserved