As summer unfolds, discussions about family vacations fill the air, with parents planning to send their kids off to amusement parks, iconic campsites, and magical destinations with grandparents. This gives moms and dads a much-deserved chance to reconnect as a couple for a couple of weeks each year.
When my son, Max, was just six years old, we were living on the sunny shores of Maui while my parents resided in Oregon. One day, they excitedly called to let me know they wanted to take Max to Disneyland in California. After much deliberation about how to get him there, my mom revealed that she had already contacted the airline, and they assured her that Max could travel solo as an “unaccompanied minor.”
“Mom, he’s six! Just six!” I protested, glancing at my little boy, with his adorable round glasses and a head of hair that had been styled in the classic Hawaiian way. He resembled a pint-sized Harry Potter, and the idea of him boarding a 747 alone was nerve-wracking.
“It’ll be perfectly fine,” she reassured me. “They assign a flight attendant to look after him, and she’ll ensure he’s never left unattended. Plus, it’s a direct flight! We’ll be right there to pick him up in Portland.”
After several more minutes of debate—with Max bouncing around the room, gleefully shouting, “I’m going to Disneyland!!”—I reluctantly agreed to let my child fly off with a stranger, hoping the flight attendant wouldn’t accidentally send him off to Botswana, leading to a worldwide search and a dramatic movie titled “I Gave My Child to a Stranger and They Lost Him. Bad Mommy.”
We arrived at the airport, where I filled out an extensive triplicate form, providing copies of his birth certificate, my driver’s license, and a detailed list of emergency contacts spanning three states and two countries. Max was brimming with excitement at the thought of traveling “all by himself,” while I was a teary mess. “Don’t worry,” the flight attendant smiled, “We haven’t lost one yet.” The word “yet” sent shivers down my spine.
Moments later, I watched my only child board the plane and cried all the way home.
Fast-forward two weeks: anxiously waiting for Max to deplane, clutching the thirty pieces of ID required to claim an unaccompanied minor, I finally spotted his beaming face. For a fleeting moment, I thought he looked older, more confident, as if he had transitioned from a small child to a young boy. Overwhelmed with relief, I instinctively rushed to him, ignoring the attendant’s commands to “Stay behind the yellow line.” I enveloped Max in a tight hug, tears streaming down my face as I assured him he had been missed every single day. (Every six-year-old’s worst nightmare: public displays of affection by a sobbing mother. This would surely come up in therapy later, but I couldn’t contain my joy—my baby was home.)
When picking up an “unaccompanied minor,” the identification requirements are intense, far beyond just a driver’s license. The airlines are serious about preventing any mix-ups, so they provide a checklist of necessary paperwork before releasing a child into your custody.
As I dug through my purse for the required documents, the flight attendant simply smiled and said, “And you must be the mother.” “Yes,” I replied, still holding onto Max like he was my lifeline. The attendant asked, “Jake, is this your mom?” Max, showing a hint of the humor that would later become his trademark, looked up and quipped, “Well, she wouldn’t be my first choice, but yeah, she’s my mom.”
Fast forward 14 years, and Max was preparing to fly to Iraq. Dropping him off, I cried all the way home again. When he returned a year later, safe and sound, I sobbed once more and hugged him tightly in public. This time, he grinned and said, “It’s okay, Mom. Go crazy.”
I’ve concluded that children, regardless of age, should never be more than a drive away. It’s just too hard on their mothers. And when he’s redeployed, I’m going with him—just not telling him yet. I might end up flying as an “unaccompanied mother.”
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In conclusion, whether it’s sending your child off to their first big adventure or navigating the complexities of parenthood, the emotional journey is undeniably profound.