An Open Letter to Mr. Jet Lag (who is messing with my head)

Dear Jet Lag,

Every summer the kids and I travel to Michigan to see my family. And every summer you nail us with your three-hour, West-to-East time difference. Milo and Belle, who are used to Pacific Standard, are up until 11pm for the first few days. Which means, Jet-Lag, that I get no down time. And that none of us is allowed quite enough sleep. You see, the children somehow know when it’s morning here (even with blackout cardboard over the window) and wake up with the sun.

Do you know what sleep deprived kids plus no-downtime-mommy equals? It equals extreme whining (which, apparently, is a competitive sport), much snapping and a giant bruise on my forehead from where I’ve banged it against the wall over and over again.

It’s not pretty. Not pretty at all.

Today, especially, Belle is on edge. And I have you to thank. You with your time zones and your negligence of circadian rythms. She is crossing her arms and stomping her chubby feet and refusing all sensible suggestions, which apparently, to her, seem needlessly cumbersome. Things like going to the bathroom, eating food, brushing her hair. And, Jet Lag, I am at the end of my frayed rope.

I would like you to butt out and let us commence with our normal schedules of nourishing our bodies and resting. I would like you to take your symptoms of irritability, headaches and disorientation and stuff them in your desynchronosis.

If you could let us slide, dear Jet Lag, I would be forever grateful. It is my eventual goal, after all, to take the kids on vacations from Seattle to the Midwest (or anywhere, really), without all of us losing our collective minds on the third day.

Thank you for your time. And I hope you make yourself scarce when we visit my New York in-laws this August. Because my head hurts. And I’ve become rather attached to the mental health that I usually enjoy at home.

Sincerely Yours,
Angie