Our son has a 6:15 am flight out of SFO, direct to Philadelphia, for a college visit. It's only for a few days, but it feels like a trial run of the real thing, less than a year away. We decided to leave the house by 4:30 am. Which really means 4:45 am.
I am putting on my make-up when I hear my son chatting with my husband. Miles is up and ready to go! He had packed his bags the night before, printed out his boarding passes and forms required by the college, charged up his phone, and clearly knew better than to rely on me to wake him up. I got myself dressed and went down to get the sandwiches I had packed for him last night, added napkins and a bag of Popchips, and tried to impart some words of wisdom to him.
"So, when you're done eating the sandwiches or discarding what you decide not to eat -- you should at least keep the big outside Ziploc, because that will still be clean, and it's a good idea to have an extra Ziploc bag when you are traveling. They come in handy sometimes," I say, trying not to sound overly anal, and failing miserably.
"Okay," replies my son. No judgment or eye-rolling. Just the usual okay, thank goodness.
I find myself telling him random things like this with increasing frequency these days. It's as if I sense that my days with him are numbered, and I am realizing there is so much I am not sure he would think of on his own. My father was relentless in telling us the "right" way to do things, and, quite frankly, I still hear his voice today in my head, making me do things better. I fear I have failed my kids in this area, and I'm cramming it in now, in their teenage years. I doubt that they like it much, but they humor me by just saying "okay."
We drive across the Bay Bridge, lit up in its stark beauty against the black sky ... and then, it feels like only a minute before we are driving through the fogginess of South City. We have arrived at our destination: San Francisco Airport.
My husband tells me that he'll wait at the curb with the car -- no need to pay for parking when it will only be a few minutes to see our son off to the security checkpoint. I get out of the car to see Miles jokingly shaking hands with his father as they say their good-bye's, and am surprised when he turns to me, hand extended, saying "Bye, Mom ..."
"What? Oh! No, I'm walking in with you," I say as I give him a quick hug at the curb. "Where's your bag?"
"It's in the back. I'll get it," he zips over to get it and he follows me into the terminal. We stop in front of the monitors, looking up in unison. I see his flight information on the screen, but I don't say anything.
"US Airways. 6:15. On time. Gate 26," my son reads off the monitor. I'm glad I didn't say anything. My son is growing up. He's a seasoned traveler. He will be fine. I'm so relieved. I get ready to say my real good-bye to him.
"Okay -- have a good time," I say, as he hugs me and picks my feet off the floor in the process, "-- but not too much of a good time."
I chuckle, and he gives me the polite okay-that's-a-weird-mom-thing-to-say smile as he starts walking away from me ... and away from the entrance to the checkpoint.
"Wait! Miles! No -- you enter over there, under the sign that says: 'ENTER HERE' --"
"Oh, wait, what? Oh, okay ..."
And with that, my son walked off in the right direction, through the ID checkpoint.
He didn't look back once. I know, because I stood there, discreetly watching him, trying to stay out of his sight. I could have stood there and waved frantically, screaming, "MILES!!! MILES!!! DON'T FORGET TO CALL!!! MAKE SURE YOU REMEMBER TO EAT YOUR LUNCH! REMEMBER THE TIME DIFFERENCE! THEY ARE THREE HOURS AHEAD OF US! DO YOU HAVE YOUR TOOTHBRUSH? YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH, DIDN'T YOU? CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THERE!!! BYE!!!"
But, I didn't.
Instead, I watched in silence. Then, I noticed a few other adults standing randomly, facing towards the security checkpoint maze, much closer to the glass barrier that separates the travelers from those of us watching and waiting. I walk over to that area, not making eye contact with anybody, trying to keep my sight-line on my son.
"Excuse me, ma'am." I look down towards the voice of a man bending over near my foot. Apparently, I'm standing too close to a storefront gate that needs to open, so I apologize and move a few steps over. I look up. Where's Miles? Did he already get through security? Could he have gotten through so quickly?
I panic for a millisecond, then realize he is just blocked from my view by a post. I watch as he gets up to the pre-conveyor belt area, puts his bag on the table, grabs a bin, puts in his shoes, puts in his phone, takes off his sweatshirt, puts his backpack down, scoots his stuff over to make room for the person behind him, puts his sweatshirt into the bin, puts his bags on the conveyor belt, waits his turn, and steps into the screening machine. I see him put his hands up as the imaging device does its thing. It's getting harder to see him now, but I catch enough of him to see him grab something (his sweatshirt? yes, his sweatshirt), put on his sweatshirt and grab something else (his shoes?) and something else and something else and then move away from the conveyor belt.
He sits down and disappears from sight. I think about leaving, but wait a moment longer, and try to find him. Could that be him? No, not him. Is that him? It's hard to see with my old eyes, but I make out a young man wearing a hoodie. Is that him? That looks like his backpack. Ah, yes, and that's his bag.
That's him. My son. The young man.
I watch as he disappears down the concourse, not looking back.
