The Boy and his girlfriend Sweetness are flying back to Minneapolis after a week in Playa del Carmen.
The plane lands at 11:30 p.m.
What’s that, son? No, no! I didn’t have anything else to do on a Saturday night! I’d be happy to pick you up!
As a quick aside, I realize that I may have signed/said/conceded to a number of things while giving birth to The Boy – it was a long, drawn-out experience and I would’ve been an easy mark – but I think I would’ve remembered agreeing to a lifetime of guaranteed transportation to and from the airport.
Wait. Maybe this means my parents are also my guaranteed ride to the airport?
I should check into that.
Anyway, for someone who hates driving to the airport as much as I do, I seem to find myself going there a lot.
It’s not the driving there that’s the problem, really; but I don’t think I’ve ever returned from the airport in the same way, and this has me concerned.
I’ve found myself in strange industrial parks, at the Mall of America, and on my way to Wisconsin, all of which are, from what I understand, not in my neighborhood.
How can there possibly be so many routes back home?
But there’s no point in fretting about it now – and perhaps I did sign up for this after all, this being there to pick him up, this putting fresh sheets on his bed for his return.
He’s coming home. And who wants you back safely more than your mother?
11 hours ago