my children vs. my real children

We drove to Chicago this past weekend. Why fly when you can drive? Let me run down a little list:

While my flying children
are served by flight attendants, on fold-down trays, fun in-flight snacks,
my real children
have me unbuckled from my seat, risking my life, to rescue the last fruit snack stuck in Wyatt's car seat before he has a complete meltdown.

While my flying children
have interesting people surrounding them in the terminal, on the flight, in the elevators,
my real children
have the back of their Mommy and Daddy's head to stare at for the next seven hours while kicking the back of our seats to no particular tune on the radio.

While my flying children
have a view of the country from thousands of feet above,

my real children
have a view of well, not much. There were a few interesting convenience store restrooms along the way. We drove from Minnesota, across Wisconsin and into Illinois, need I say more.

At least unlike my flying children, my real children can have their piggies out the entire trip, it’s their favorite way to travel.