Airports and nerf guns

May 2, 2014

       When I finally get up to the counter to check in my bag and find out it’s a whopping three pounds over the weight limit, I am considering throwing over those extra couple books I threw in last minute. Just because I’m going home for a whole three weeks doesn’t mean I need a different book for each day.

But the stewardess just smiles at me with crinkly eyes. “Are you a student?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Going home for the break?”

“I sure am.”

She waves her hand dismissively at my bag. “Don’t worry about it. You’re the fifth or sixth student I’ve gotten today; none of you can seem to keep your bags under the weight limit!” She chuckles.

I smile weakly and thank her.

After being hassled by security for not putting my laptop in a separate bin and getting chosen “randomly” to have my carry-on searched, just because I crammed an entire bag of cocoa puffs in there, I’m counting on relaxing at on the plane. But spending the entirety of the three hours squished between two people who aren't exactly the tiniest (you'd say that "they've had one cookie too many"), is anything but relaxing.  

The second I’m stepping off the airplane and onto the ramp, I’m wishing it all could’ve taken a whole lot longer. My mind flashes briefly to the two days near Christmas that I spent with my parents in the year since I moved out. Hardly quality time.

Getting to the baggage claim and collecting my overweight bag is a breeze compared to my previous experience. Soon enough, I’m dragging the sagging suitcase behind me into the still-frigid May air and scanning the line of cars for our blue Prius.

They honk when they see me and Mom clambers out to help me with my suitcase. We heave it into the trunk and then she pulls me into her arms. I smell her perfume and that, at least, is the same as it’s always been.

The ride home is filled with pleasantries; I tell my tale of airport woe and they talk about their trip into the city to pick me up—apparently they made a day of it. They promise to take me into the city later for a “touristy day!” and I look out the window at brightly lit buildings whizzing by.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting when we finally get to the house, but the tidy mess that greets me is definitely not it. Mom’s made the best of the move and picked out an entirely new color scheme for most of the rooms. Purples mostly. Some navy. It’s unnerving to see our dinner table, our couches, our piano, in this new and unfamiliar house.

And honestly, that’s how the entire three weeks is for us. It is an odd thing to see our relationship, especially between my mother and me, in this new setting. We bicker good-naturedly and there are a few moments when she slips back into her judgmental ways, and a few instants where I clam up. But we work through them. It is entirely different now that we’re both “adults”.

Although, the second she picks up a nerf gun and shoots at me while I’m peacefully playing piano, and I grin and jump up to claim my own weapon and defend myself, I wonder if any of us really and truly become adults after all.