Flying Alone With A Walking Stick

I am sitting in the Phoenix Airport on Monday the 21st of December waiting to catch a Southwest flight to San Jose, CA. Evan and I flew here on Friday to help my mom move into her new place in Scottsdale. We left the kids with my brother and sister in law in Palo Alto. That was the trade off. They take the boys, we move Mom. Excellent. We are all happy. Evan flew back yesterday so I am flying alone today. 3 nights without my boys after close to four months of rather extreme togetherness has produced interesting separation issues and intrigue around a walking stick.

Alone. Nobody knows I am a mother. Nobody knows I have no set address and that I live in a travelling RV.

On Saturday night I made the mistake of phoning to check in on the boys. Reminder to all mothers whose kids are under the age of 10: Never let them hear your voice if you are away over night. My sister in law Lalitha and I were chatting about their day, how Simon has been feeling, what they had eaten. All is well. “Josh is out on a walk with Garret and the boys but Simon wants to talk with you,” she says. “Great, put him on! Hi Babe,” I say in a bright, sunshine voice. Who knows what Simon was saying between the tears, snorts and blubbers. My interpretation: “Mommy, I am being tortured by my brother and ignored by everyone else. You are a Bad Mother. I will be scared for the rest of my life. I will never be able to have a close relationship with any other human being. `I will need extreme psycho therapy AND IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”

I am at gate C4 in the Phoenix Airport, I am coming home Sweet Simon!

Lots of families travelling with multi colored backpacks, activity bags and brothers’ poking each other. Standing in line at security there was a Dad in his late 30’s travelling with his 3 kids. The eldest was about 11 and the Dad was getting ready to blow up. “Can’t you stop touching or poking your brother for one minute?” he yells. The answer of course is, “No, I a programmed genetically to be annoying and this won’t stop until I am in my early 20’s.” Which reminds me of the song Simon and I made up last week, sung to the tune of Up on the Roof Top: “Let’s be annoying 1-2-3, I’ll poke you and you poke me, Then we will sing an annoying song. If you are lucky it will last REAL L—O—N—G--.”

But I am flying by myself. I will not sing the song to the 11 year old boy behind me. Nobody knows that I am a mother, they would just think I was a weirdo. I am so focused on watching the Dad and the three kids I forget to focus on my stuff and make sure the walking stock went through. It did.

It is a Cattle Call here at the gate. I am in the C group – the last group. Why even bother figuring out where to position myself. It is just me. Nothing to check in. Nothing to declare. I am flying alone so I can sneak in anywhere. Anonymous. Maybe people are looking at me and thinking I am a business woman typing important documents on my little computer. Maybe they think I am brokering a deal that is worth lots of money and that I am highly valued. But business women don’t travel with walking sticks.

Let’s be real. Nobody is looking at me. Everyone around me is too busy trying to figure out how to position themselves so that when the Flight Agent says GO they can take off and get the best seat with a roomy overhead compartment.

The Gate Agents for Southwest Airlines wear regular street clothes. Many are wearing shorts. I don’t like that. Call me old fashioned but I want my Gate Agents in a uniform. Not necessarily caps and gloves, but a basic uniform so I can tell them apart from the customers would be nice. For some reason reading Comme Caca (written out like Coca Cola) does not instill deep loyalty or confidence in passengers

There goes the first bell and the masses are off and running onto the plane. Unaccompanied minors are first. Families and the infirmed are next. Maybe I could use the walking stick and pretend I am handicapped so I can go first. But why? So I can sit on the plane longer?

My phone rings. Josh reset my ring tone last week and it is straight out of an Indian Epic Movie. I am thinking of Delhi and I am hungry for a palak paneer. I want to dance with scarves but that would blow my cover as an important business woman with a walking stick. It is Evan. He calls me about every 4 hours. He is very helpful. He has lots of ideas on how I can be more efficient. I love him. I love the fact that he is always thinking about ways to make my life easier. “Yes sweetie, the flight is on time. No, I didn’t have any trouble getting the walking stick through security. Yes, I have something to suck on for departure and arrival. See you soon.”

Back at Gate C4…oh shit. They just called my name. I was so busy pretending to be an important business woman I forgot to pay attention. They are closing the gate. No problem. Throw my stuff in the bag. It is just me and I am fast. I am at the gate. They check my boarding pass. I am waiting on the gang way at the end of the line behind a mother who looks about 12 holding a beautiful baby. They are both wearing pink valour. We smile. I think she thinks I am old enough to need a walking stick.

I am the last person on the plane. I am entering the cabin. Open seat in the middle of the right hand second row. I eyeball the woman in the aisle and ask if the seat is free. She moves over to the middle. I put the walking stick on the aisle seat along with my hand bag. I shove my carry on suitcase up above the seat. I spy another overhead for the walking stick. I sit down. I turn to the woman in the middle and offer to sit there, but “No”, she says, “just tell me the story of the walking stick.”