I Take Off Tightly Wrapped

Dearest support hose,

We meet again.

For the first ten days after I gave birth you saved me from the threat of blood clots. I never thought I would need to pull you up over my blue-streaked legs again, but I was of little faith. I need you. We have survived perilous times, even dangerous times, you and I. We are now, when we travel, like Indiana Jones and his hat. Or maybe even his whip. Only maternal and unthreatening.
On long journeys by car, by train and by aeroplane, you have become my constant companion. Once, when I was young and cool, I would have been ashamed of our alliance. But now, I realise you are as indepensible to my travels with the kids as an extra t-shirt, sticker books and Gravol.

You keep aches and sluggish legs at bay. You stop my appendages from falling asleep and giving me pins and needles. You prevent my from passing out when I have to rise suddenly and walk the baby up and down aisles or chase my three year-old while he persists in annoying the people in first class.

And, when it comes down to it, you remind my of my grandmother. I am nothing but a sentimental fool, but you allow me to feel good about it.
I do not know what adventures await us in the wilds of South-Eastern Europe, beloved elastic stockings. All I want you to know is that today, like always, I am happy to fly off into the great blue yonder with you two and your unfailing support.