That was what the hand-written, duct taped sign poised precariously above our heads read as our worldly possessions dwindled to a small heap. It had sounded great, in theory, and I was caught surprisingly off guard when a gruff woman offered me $5 for a small table that had once belonged to my now deceased grandparents and I acted as if she had called me any number of awful things while I brought the table back to the recesses of the garage and placed it in the “to be determined” pile. I knew I could not fit that table in my carry-on, nor did I want to pay for some gargantuan sized storage facility, but “selling it all” was proving more difficult than I had imagined. When I had initially proposed a year long trip around the world, my husband dismissed it as another one of my half-baked, utopian ideas. Wasn’t traveling the world a feat reserved for college kids, loners, hippies, and occasionally wayward honeymooners? It certainly wasn’t possible for a family with a small child. Or was it? For the past two years, my husband and I, along with our 4-year-old son had toyed with the idea of such a trip. Now, however, as I faced moving from the home in which our son was born (literally…he was born in a birth tub where our dining room table used to reside), the sale of a business we had nurtured for eight years, and leaving family and friends to their own lives, I was beginning to feel a bit of seller’s remorse. Selling it all, freeing as it felt, was also a lesson in faith. You see, growing up in a society that categorizes success not only in dollars and cents, but also in one’s climb toward the “American dream”, I was beginning to wonder if we were voluntarily climbing down rung by rung or slipping quickly down the entire ladder. There is something a little unsettling in the unsettling of things. Fear and panic began to seep in and I was beginning to believe that maybe this idea was pretty half-baked. Being as it may, however, I was born a red head, and a fiery one at that. Each crazy blank stare I received added fuel to my proverbial “I told you so” fire however, and I was committed. The fact that I had two other willing and eager participants in my husband and son meant that even if I did waiver, I would have to consult with them when it came time to board the first plane to everywhere. One would assume that as “Take Off” day approaches, excitement would increase incrementally, but something strange seems to be taking place within me as my insecurities step forward one by one. For the second time in my life (the first being when I worked for Royal Caribbean), I feel restricted by a calendar. I begin to wonder about all the wonderful things I might be missing. As friends discuss impending plans for parties, weddings (sorry, Ryan), and events or my beloved aerial acrobatics studio finalizes their expansion plans, I feel a twinge of sadness for what is yet to be. It might sound completely insane, given that many would gladly give up the daily grind for some real adventure, but regardless, that’s how I feel. As a mom, I worry that all the grand hopes I have for my son as a result of this trip, might turn into resentment in his later years for his lack of a normal childhood. Again, it comes back to faith. Faith in myself, faith in the goodness of humankind, and faith that somehow, some way, things will always turn out alright…and maybe, sometimes, much better than alright.
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