Buzz Kill.

The flight went as well as could be expected. There were lots of movies to watch, and everyone was tired and worn out enough to sleep a little.

Traveling with three kids, I learned a long time ago that it's best to just pack everyone a box of (mostly healthy) stuff I know they'll eat, and let them eat what they want whenever they want, rather than rely on the airplane food choices. So yes, Ms. Flight Attendant, I am perfectly fine with my ten-year old son refusing, your delectable offer of a meal. Please save your judgmental looks for someone else. Not that it's any of your business, but he ate his peanut butter sandwich when we got on the plane, because that's when his body told him it was time to eat. And yes, I am also fine with him refusing your hot-pocket-type-pizza-sandwhich and only accepting the ice cream cup during the "snack" service. My kids aren't familiar with that sort of gooey cheese goodness (yet) and let's not forget, that it is almost midnight Belgian time. He might not be that hungry.

We got off the plan in a jet lag stupor, and got ourselves through customs. This not being our first time re-entering the good ol' U.S. of A., I knew that one of my biggest jobs as a mom of three was to get rid of all of the forbidden foods before we got off the plane. That meant we had to dump all of the cheeses, uneaten salami sandwiches and fruit. And I didn't feel the least bit bad about throwing it all away as most of it had come from our refrigerator before we moved and it had served its purpose well.

We dragged tired little bodies through the line at customs, and each child even answered the customs agent when spoken to. And not one word was mentioned about our extra bottles of wine. All was good. A.J. was in a pile against the wall while we got our NINE suitcases. "You'll be ok," I told him. "It's just the jet lag. We just have to get on the elevator and through the door and Uncle Ryan will be there to take us home."

We shuffled ourselves through the last customs agent. Balancing two carts, wheely carry-ons, backpacks and tired kids, we pushed everyone just a little bit further. "Just get to the elevator," we said again. "Uncle Ryan will be there when it opens to help us."

Only, when it did, there was no Uncle Ryan. (Sorry Uncle Ryan, if you are reading this, I didn't mean to call you out in front of everyone.) But it was kind of funny, to see all sorts of families waiting with signs and balloons for their college-age kids coming back after spending a semester abroad. And then have to dig out my Belgian phone to say, "We're here!"

In all fairness, our flight arrived ahead of schedule, we needed two cars to pick us up, and it was the middle of rush hour on a weeknight the week before Christmas. Kind of a lot to ask of anyone, but especially of two working parents with little kids. It was enough to know we were going to their house, and their house was close to the airport.

Thankfully, my cell phone still worked and we had plenty of luggage to sit on while we waited. Soon enough, we and our pile of luggage and backpacks, were on our way and in our blurry tiredness, we didn't even really notice or remember that we had to wait a few minutes.

The Fowler Family was home.

And in the end it turned out to be a good thing A.J. didn't eat much on the plane. Somewhere along the way he picked up a stomach bug and spent his first 24 hours in the U.S. with a high fever and unable to keep anything down. But it passed quickly enough and we were just happy it didn't hit any earlier than it did.

On to Christmas!