We flew the crew up to Maine to celebrate my son’s 2nd birthday with G’s family. I will not detail the wondrous experience that flying with two lap babies can be, particularly two babies who outgrew laps long ago. I couldn’t describe it if I wanted to since I’ve already repressed every memory to a dark recess of my mind where it will peek out to plague me the moment I book the next non-refundable plane trip.
As traveling parents can attest, you must divide and conquer if you want to escape the airport with your life intact. Our arrival strategy boiled down to me waiting with the bags and the kids while G rented a car. He would drive it around to the baggage claim doors to collect us.
We waited. And cried (yes, all of us). And waited some more. And cried some more.
Finally, G called my cell phone to say he’d be pulling up in 1 minute. He closed with:
“And I got a sweet upgrade.”
As I scrambled to organize babies and bags, I heard a grumbling baritone from outside that I realized, with a gasp, could only be Air Force One landing on a nearby runway. Presidential families do summer in Maine, after all. I wiped away snot and tears and implored my children to abide proper etiquette when meeting the First Family of the United States. That is until my own manners flew out the window with a statement that went something like, “What the shit is that?”
That was not Air Force One nor the Obamas at all. It wasn’t even the Clintons.
It was my husband idling the engine of our rental car. His sweetly upgraded rental car.
I guess sweet upgrades mean mud flaps, staggering gas bills, and a larger fuselage than the plane we disembarked to some people.
So, no, I did not see the Obamas. And I did not actually vacation with Toby Keith. But Toby did call to say that he done want his truck back. And the firearm under the driver’s seat, too!
One more memory to repress. Now if only my mind has enough space to hold a 4 door V8 pickup truck.