Other People’s Kids

Sitting in the airport…finally…without kids, I feel compelled to write about them.

On my way up the escalator between ticketing and security, a grandma chocked back tears while her grand kids waved back from behind the pants of their mom. Emotions rising in my own chest from this all-to-familiar scenario, I thought the kids were doing fine. The line wasn’t exactly long, but we plugged along. At the point of checking ID and boarding passes, the smaller boy leaned up against the podium. “Please don’t do that!” the security guard barked down at him. Nudged ahead by his mom, I asked the agent if she has kids of her own. “Yes, one, and she was not raised to behave that badly.”

Okay, I realize the security line at the airport is probably the one place on earth where you can find temper tantrums of all kinds.  But leaning on the podium? I pity the child treading quietly across your white carpet. Flashback to a low point in our recent family vacation. Having the audacity to think of something other than ice cream cones, toys, and water parks, I needed a spare set of keys made at small town Ace Hardware. Under strict instruction to (1) not touch anything, (2) stick together, and (3) not beg, it was like I had simultaneously planted the seeds of deviance in the minds of my own offspring. Ten minutes and three keys later, I was rummaging for money in my wallet through tears (embarrassed for everyone in the store).

Through pursed lips, the cashier (perhaps the long-distance mom of the security agent), told me to take a “deep breath.” SNAP. Two weeks. Three kids. No help. 1500 miles. Hell, I needed a paper bag and a canister of asthma meds. Hormones and exhaustion aside, isn’t there an empathy rule among us moms? Sometimes I think being on both sides of these moments is helpful for us all.  Deep breath, right?

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