'Finding myself' as a mother on an airplane

"Flight attendants prepare for takeoff."

They're not exactly the most poignant words, and I've never had a fear of flying, so why was I sitting on the runway with tears streaming down my cheeks?

It had little to do with sadness at the thought of leaving my husband and little boy at home. I was only going for a long weekend and though I'd miss them dearly, a few days away can go a long way toward recharging the batteries. Especially when the batteries are constantly being drained by an infant and an extremely energetic toddler with a penchant for being chased in circles. All day long. So it wasn't that.

It wasn't really the fear of traveling solo with a baby. By the time the pilot uttered those words, the hardest part was over. We had arrived at the airport the recommended 3 hours in advance, lugged the suitcase, stroller and diaper bag from the parking lot to the gate, paid all the necessary and unnecessary fees, stripped down as requested by the TSA (did you know even a 7-month old baby must take off her shoes?), and made it onto the plane. So it wasn't that, either.

It took me a few minutes to figure it out, but when I did I realized I wasn't sad at all. They were tears of happiness. Because for the first time in nearly three years, I finally felt like myself.

Travel has always been a huge part of my life, especially solo travel. There's just always been something so satisfying about throwing clothes in a bag and taking off...alone. Backpacking through Europe? You bet. Crossing the Australian Outback? Absolutely. Eating take-out in a hotel bed just outside Cleveland? I'd love to. I even made travel my career for several years, working for both Air France and Club Med resorts. Travel has brought me some of the best memories, some of the happiest times of my life.

But then along came baby... and another baby... and it's never quite felt the same. It's not that we stopped traveling. Both kids have passports and have already logged their share of frequent flier miles. But we've always traveled together as an entire family. And with so much luggage. Strollers, diapers, toys, bags of this and that. Even at 35,000 feet, I felt so heavy, so weighed down. So afraid that I might not make it through the day, much less an entire trip. Like my tenuous grasp on motherhood might somehow evaporate the moment we left solid ground.

Becoming a parent isn't an instant process; it doesn't just "happen" the minute the doctor puts that wriggling mass in your arms. It happens slowly, while rocking a sick baby back to sleep at 3am. It happens tearfully while taming toddler tantrums. It happens loudly when you snap open a stroller with one hand while balancing a baby, a stuffed cow and a bag of groceries in the other. It happens silently as you share a private smile with your child in the rearview mirror. It happens over time as you find pieces of your old self and figure out how to fit them into this new person you've become.

Sometimes it even happens on an airplane.

I didn't accomplish any great task, I just got on a plane with my sweet baby girl and took a flight. But it was enough. Enough to remind me of the things that used to make me happy, and to know that they still can. I can be a parent and I can still be me. It's who I'm becoming. It's happening.

And one day, I know I'll fly again.

Mona Shand is a TV and radio news reporter. You can read more on her blog.