Normally before vacation, I pack and unpack. I rehearse exotic languages. I google and read books.
Not this time.
This time my 12-year-old daughter and I, with my traveling companion, will head to Paris for the day Saturday and then Russia for a week.
Today we had a lil “come to Jesus” meeting about her room. And she was told to clean it before we started packing. My plan was to get her packed (after seven years of summer camp, she got this) and take her for a one mile or so walk around the neighborhood as training for navigating airports and subway stations.
She organized her bags like a trooper. And then I asked her to pull our travel paperwork. Money, passports, notarized documents from her father saying she could travel with me, vaccination records…
“Mommy, your passport isn’t here.”
We checked my purse, the car, ripped the drawers out of furniture. I checked under the bed. I checked lunch boxes.
I had it out to use it as identification when I needed fingerprints last week, for my position as a graduate assistant at West Chester University. I called the fingerprint office.
After an hour of ransacking my house, my friend reminds me that we stopped at the grocery store 15 miles from my house so she could buy sesame oil.
I call them. A nice young man named Jeff tells me they have a passport and he thinks it’s mine.
I drive out.