Tuesday, July 18, 2006

who's your Mommy?

When we were on our way to California in April, Julia was really well behaved. She's a flying pro, having taken 7 round trip flights in her short 4.5 years on the planet, which I believe is higher than the statistical average for an adult. But I digress.

In flight, until Julia fell asleep, she was mesmerized by the Irish woman who unfortunately had to sit next to us. Jules told her her short life story, inquired as to her holiday plans and then talked about Robots and horses.

"Did you know Rodney Copperbottom is the bestest and this is what he looks like, see? He's a 'robok', that's why his face and hands are hard."

"Hmm. A robot. Is this from a movie."

"Yeah, dat's what I said. He's Rodney Copperbottom from Roboks and the red guy is Fenber."

This was the scope of the conversaton until she passed out and took over my seat, forcing me to stand and/or crouch for the remaining 5 hours. Luckily, BA flight attendents make sure that you have enough alcohol.

When we arrived, Julia was cranky to put it mildly. She had had enough. We had left at 5 in the morning and, after a 3 hour layover in London, when we finally arrived at SFO it was 1am our time. She was even more disturbed that she had to walk because -hello- she was tired! She began to wake up at the baggage carousel and tried to help collect our bags, which resulted in her crying as I hit her in the head with the big bag after telling her through clenched teeth to kindly but seriously get out of mommy's way. It was accidental, but she sobbed saying, "We don't hit people Mama."

Contemplating just running away from the emotional hysterics, I grabbed our bags, loaded our cart and made for customs. We approached the window, handed over our passports and Jules' permission slips. Mr. Customsofficial asked the usual questions: was this my daughter, was I carrying $10,000 dollars on my person, was I in possession of fruit and/or vegetables, and was I asked to carry anything for a stranger? Yes, no, no and, um, no. He looked at Julia and began a new series of inquiries.

"How old are you?"

-no response-

"What's your name?"

"Go ahead George, tell him your name."


"And how old are you, Juli?"

"My name is Ju-li-ah."

"How old are you, Jewel-ya?"

"This many. 4."

"And is this your mommy, Jewel-ya?"

"No. She is not my mommy."

-Did my daughter just tell the customs official that she does not belong to me? I instantly turned bright red. -

"Ok, Jules, ha ha, kindly tell the nice man in the uniform who your mommy is. Now."

-Julia just looks at the man, looks at me and says nothing.-

"Ma'am, this child is yours, correct?"

"Yessir, definitely."

"Have a nice day."

"Thank you sir."

1 comment:

Food Mum said...

Phew, thank goodness the customs guy knew about children..momentary heart failure there on your behalf!