Leaving home

So she has gone. Our youngest child. Our baby. She has flown the coop. Left the nest. Spread her wings and taken to the skies.

I can't believe it! Imagine someone so young (it seems it was only yesterday she started at Sedge Primary) getting on a plane all by herself, and jetting off to see the world?

Actually it's probably a good thing that 'spreading her wings' is just a metaphor, because the amount of clothing she packed in her suitcase - or ‘The Bag’ as it became known - would have necessitated the pectoral muscles of a pre-historic dragon. I do hope British Airways has the common sense to stow The Bag in the exact centre of the plane's underside storage.

Leading up to her departure has been highly emotional to say the least. There has been numerous times that I have sat cringing downstairs, with hands over ears, trying to block out the heartbreaking wails and sobs emanating from her bedroom. Mrs Ed is braver than I – she actually sat upstairs, clutching our daughter to her ample bosom in an attempt to somehow ease the agonising pain the girl had to go through each time she realised that ANOTHER pair of shoes would have to stay behind.

Not that we are a jet-setting sort of family (for years I had my kids convinced that driving over the White Bridge to Knysna was 'going overseas') but I do know that if you are travelling by plane, fitting everything into your luggage is quite stressful at the best of times, especially when the trip is a six-month long working holiday.

And that stress can be multiplied by 400 for our daughter, who had only one bag. One VERY BIG bag. The Bag.

You see, as I may have mentioned before, Fear Factor (that's a nickname we have given her since she started learning to drive) (it comes from the look on other drivers' and pedestrians' and cyclists' and dogs' faces as she drives past, putting on her mascara, drinking coffee, answering her cell phone and taking a selfie as she goes) is not just fond of her clothes, she's not just attached to them…

She IS them.

And they are her.

Seriously, at twenty years old, Fear Factor has never, ever thrown out a piece of clothing. Why? Because she considers her clothes an all important, life-giving part of her soul. And you can't just casually throw away your soul, can you?

That would be like… like… going on holiday without it....
“No Mom! Not this shirt. You can't ask me to leave this shirt behind – it's my Grade 8 school shirt. It's what I wore for my FIRST YEAR IN HIGH SCHOOL MOM!”
So we finally got The Bag closed with minutes to spare. It wasn't easy, and eventually we had to ask Mrs Ed to sit on it WITH HER DINNER PLATE, just so we could close the zip and fasten the buckles. I'm not claiming to have ever seen what a puff adder looks like after it has just consumed a Brahman Bull, but I imagine it would be something similar.

Even then another pair of shoes and some extra clothes were stuffed into the side pouches, just in case.

Fortunately seventeen of Fear Factor's friends had come to say good bye, so with their help along with a rather nifty pulley system and the steel elastic from Mrs Ed's drawers, we could swing The Bag out the window and lower it down into the unsuspecting car's boot. (I swear I heard it say “Ow! My back!” in fluent Toyota.)

Then, after waiting until we would be predictably late, we sped off for the airport with the poor car's front wheels only intermittently making contact with the tar. It looked like the old Camry was attempting to take to the skies herself.

Swinging into the car park with seconds to spare, we had to pull up and consider our methodology of getting The Bag onto the plane. Obviously we didn't want to pay for excess luggage, so we couldn't use a forklift or camel to carry it in from the car because that would surely give the game away to the eagle eyed checker-inners. (Apart from that, I thought they were both splendid options, and certainly not worth the disdainful glare I got from Mrs Ed's good eye when I had the wisdom to suggest them).

And the security officers swiftly kyboshed my attempts to reverse the car through the automatic sliding doors. (I did think diving onto my bonnet with a tazer pointed towards my forehead and shouting 'FREEZE! AIRPORT SECURITY' was a bit melodramatic) .

So, we had to grit out teeth and let Mrs Ed carry the thing.

Hoping that by some miracle, the young check-in man would look the other way when The Bag went onto the scale, I suggested that Fear Factor bat her eyelashes and flash a smile at him as she handed over her ticket. She did this particularly well, (if I hadn't known better I might have thought she had done it before) , and in her most husky, little girl voice she offered.
“I'm afraid I'm a little overweight.”

In knee-jerk reaction I added “I think she looks just fine, don't you?” (One never knows when one may be looking at a potential spouse for one's child… and apparently airport staff get discounted flights for the whole family!).

I don't know who kicked which shin the hardest, but I have no doubt that Mrs Ed has been giving Fear Factor lessons on the quiet. Eventually the pain subsided enough to get back on my feet whilst Mrs Ed and Fear Factor, under instruction from the non-plussed check-in man, emptied the side pouches of The Bag, just to make it a little lighter.

And so, a few minutes later, as our darling daughter strode through the departure gate, she stopped, turned around and gave a final wave good bye.

And then something strange happened. It was as if, in that moment, she’d had a sudden realisation.
“I love you. Both of you,” she mewed, seemingly avoiding eye contact so we wouldn't see the tears welling up. My heart warmed and, with my own eyes wet and a lump in my throat, I turned around to share this special moment with her mother….

And then I realised.

Fear Factor wasn't talking to us at all.

In fact she was looking directly at the shoes Mrs Ed was holding, the pair she had taken from the side pouch in an effort to lighten The Bag.
“I'll miss you guys,” Fear Factor sobbed at them. Then she turned around and was gone.

I think I'm going to rent out her bedroom sooner rather than later.