Nothing makes you more acutely aware of the relativity of time than jetlag.

We returned from our three-week trip to the States in great spirits. Iberia Airlines had vastly overbooked our flight to Munich (via Madrid) so the airline clerk suggested we hop a direct flight to Munich on Lufthansa instead. The children thrust themselves heavenward in a collective expression of jubilation. I hadn’t heard the end of it since we flew over on Iberia.

“No personalized monitor screens? No happy-faced flight attendants’ Icky bathrooms and an ancient aircraft?”

Before the clerk could blink, I grabbed his arm and screamed replied, Heck Yeah!

In a matter of words, we agreed unconditionally.

My husband, fresh off a sustained state of relaxation (he spent most of his time either in the kitchen cooking or in the hammock reading), praised me for my foresight of coming to the airport a little earlier than necessary.

“We’re flying our preferred airline now, all thanks to Mama! She’s the one that insisted suggested we leave early. Isn’t that great?” So the half-hour we invested saved us five hours of travel time.

Now, back at home, we’re engaging in the time zone dance. Meeting halfway to the bathroom at 1 am, my daughter and I blinked at each other in the darkness.

“Why are you up?” I asked her. She wasn’t coherent (and I was distinctly unfair in demanding anything more than a mumble). We met again at 3 am, but then all was quiet.

That is, until my eyes popped awake at 10 am, wondering where the time went…