Holiday travel includes... a pat-down?

Tom woke the boys and me at 4:55 this morning. That is truly an ungodly, grotesque hour, even if you're headed to Shangri-La via private coach. We were all feeling festive though and once at security, a calm settled. A TSA agent said I'd been selected for a random hand-swab screening, and because positive role-modeling for the kids and all, I said, "Sure thing!" and flipped my palms willingly upward. He used that odd speculum-that-holds-a-round-facial-cotton tool the TSA loves for swabbing any- and everything, and wiped my hands in such a nice way that, modeling and all, I said, "Oh, boys, this is like a nice massage."

Which it was until the alarm sounded, and I was kindly told that because I'd failed and thus issued an alert, I would have to be taken back for private screening. Not to sound fancy, but because the only thing I believed to be on my hands was a filmy remnant of the new Chanel foundation I treated myself to over the weekend, I smiled with confidence and again said, "Sure." I mean really, does Chanel trade in or mimic explosives?

I think not. Though wasn't Coco a fairly awful human? Anti-semitic, a Nazi-supporter, homophobic and so forth? Anyway, I digress.

So, the boys and Tom went one way, and I went another. For a rather lengthy amount of time. All of my stuff was screened twice, the speculum wand swabbed my boots, purse, wallet, iPhone, and two women escorted me to a private, windowless room, shut the door and proceeded to describe a full pat-down and then administer one. I just kept smiling and agreeing because really, if I had anything to hide, it'd be that instead of going to meetings, I rent a room for the hour and sleep (not true, people), but my heart definitely beat a bit more quickly and I was glad to rejoin my crew.

As you might imagine, we all found a fair amount of funny in this -not least because it was 6:30am and how many moms get patted down at that time in an airport while their kids watch as much as they can, mouths agape?- but I also noodled on the experience, more seriously and to myself, for a while.

I hadn't done a darn thing wrong this morning and truly, if it wasn't the Chanel, it was airport bathroom or cab or kids or a confluence of being in public, that dusted my paws with something that set off a random alarm. Of course I want people to be aware and cautious and do their jobs, but it still all made me think.

What might have been different if I were a woman of color? A man of color? What if pat-downs, and their attendant skepticism (at best) and outright distrust (worse) were something I'd experienced before or often? Or frequently? And/or for no reason? Or not a good one.

I wonder how many of our countrymen and women feel watchful eyes glancing upon them with suspicion and feel their heart rates pick up and notice a slight bead of sweat at their brow or a nervous chuckle burble forth as a coping mechanism. I wonder what that does to someone's psyche if it happens repeatedly. If it happens in front of their children. If it happens and doesn't turn out well.

I am sometimes told that I feel things too deeply and cannot right the ills of the world. Both of those claims are probably true. But, it is my firmest conviction that ambivalence about great issues is a moral failure of sorts. One of the most serious problems our society has is constant short-term amnesia that repeatedly excuses us from actually dealing with problems at hand. If everyone cares but only for a bit, the "losers" are the ones who were victimized in the first-place, for they are the ones still dealing with the aftermath of the thing we watchers were upset about for a moment. They are the ones who've lost sons and daughters and retirement funds and farmland. They lose twice.

In the midst of this season, during which so many are celebrating a multitude of traditions, let us not only give thanks for all we have but also issue hope for more justice and fairness for all those who go without. Let us continue to think at once more specifically and more broadly, for by connecting with one or a few, we might be determined to work towards the betterment of all.

Soon to Looz

We leave at the crack of dawn for Louisiana, just missing dear family friends who are staying in our house the whole time we're gone. What a gift to have loving friends watching our pets and staying cozy in our home. I love it. This guy will love it too!

This afternoon, we celebrated an early Christmas with Tom's parents -Oliver is besotted with his Ghostbusters costume!- and then realized we really must pack and ready ourselves. Leftover gumbo made for a spectacular dinner, and now I'm off to bed, both dreading and happily anticipating the early alarm waiting to rouse me.

Inopportune loo-ing and gumbo

You know what really irritates me? When I've just settled in somewhere -let's say on a couch, wrapped in a blanket, a fire going- and I realize, with urgency, that I need to pee. It gets my goad (some say that's goat) every single time. I understand that my body is telling me something, but tarnation, I just got comfortable. Anyway, we had a day that felt busy, but I'm not actually sure what we did. Oliver had a playdate, Jack had Tae Kwon Do, I went to the same stores two times each -wha??- and we all watched Spaceballs. Tom made a gumbo because although I had every intention of doing so, I just couldn't rally. It's one of the dishes he feels he's mastered, so why would I stand in his way? To be honest with you, he needs to thin his just a tad. It's not a smoothie, man! But I'll take it.

Ol and I walked Percy, and O climbed every tree in sight as Percy peed on them. Ol is a darling bozo of epic proportion. Observe what we did to his hair and how he chose to pose just before we headed out.

Clasped in his arm is his newest friend, Penguy. Oliver is a very funny child, and Tom and I have absolutely zero idea about just what will become of him. We're pretty laissez-faire and feel he'll land on his feet, but it's kinda funny to consider that your offspring could really run the gamut in terms of outcome.

I'm super-happy that T felt inspired to cook, because it was a perfect evening for bowls of steaming gumbo and fluffy rice. Today was cold as get-out, y'all; I just couldn't get warm, no matter how much I put on or how close I sat to the fireplace. And although I make gumbo throughout the year, something about it also feels festive, as if it's a seasonal imperative to be eating it just now, as Christmas approaches. We popped sparkling apple cider for the boys, and T made bourbon-blood orange & cardamom shrub cocktails for us, and the four of us sat on the floor, round our fluidly triangular coffee table, eating and drinking and warming ourselves in front of the glowing hearth.

Because I am forever on a mission to dispel the Facebook-perfection image so many of us have about others' lives, please know that while our dinner was lovely enough, it was in no way perfect or overly relaxing as it involved marshmallows lit afire like small torches (s'more fail) and then thrust into all the logs, the chimney and the glass doors that front our fireplace; extreme butt talk by two boys lolling about on the floor, as rice and crumbs and so forth spread like ashes in wind; futile requests to please use silverware rather than hands because really, soup!; and so forth.

I told the kids they could skip baths, a decision I half-regretted when Oliver undressed and I got a whiff of areas south of his navel. I handed him his PJs and scurried out of the room with some excuse about peeing again. Probably true. And then the boys asked if they could try once more to sleep in the same room even though we always have to separate them because so many reasons including the Mose the Fireman book-on-CD being played at 9000 decibels.

The separation just commenced, in case you're wondering if this time worked. It did not.

I've put away the leftover gumbo and am sitting in front of a tired, flameless fire. The Nut is asleep on my abdomen; one of my arms is over his, my other alongside his ear, and I desperately hope I don't realize that the loo calls because the purrfect, quiet, sweet peace that I feel right now is deserved and fleeting and a wonderful combination of all that came before.