Updated: July 30, 2019
Originally Published: Jan. 31, 2012
As summer approaches, the buzz of family vacation plans fills the air. Parents are eagerly discussing sending their little ones off to theme parks, beloved camps, and magical realms with grandparents, allowing themselves a precious couple of weeks to be adults again.
When my son, Max, was just six years old, we were living in sunny Maui while my parents resided in Oregon. One summer day, they called with exciting news: they wanted to take Max to Disneyland in California. After much back-and-forth about the best way to get him there, my mom revealed she had already spoken to the airline. They assured her he could travel as an “unaccompanied minor.”
“Mom, he’s six. Six!” I exclaimed, glancing at my tiny boy with his bright Hawaiian shirt and oversized glasses, resembling a pint-sized Harry Potter. The thought of him boarding a 747 solo was overwhelming.
“It’ll be fine!” she reassured me. “A flight attendant will look after him the whole way. It’s a direct flight; we’ll pick him up in Portland.” After several heated discussions and seeing Max bouncing around yelling, “I’m going to Disneyland!!”, I reluctantly agreed to let my little one fly off with a stranger.
Arriving at the airport, I filled out an eight-page form, attaching copies of his birth certificate, my ID, and a list of emergency contacts that could rival a small novel. Max was practically vibrating with excitement about flying “all by himself,” while I was a sobbing mess. “Don’t worry,” the flight attendant said with a smile. “We haven’t lost one yet.” Yet?? My heart sank. Moments later, I watched my only child board the plane, tears streaming down my face as I drove home.
Two weeks later, my heart raced as I awaited his return, armed with the necessary ID to claim my child. When I finally spotted his beaming face, I noticed he seemed older, more confident—could this trip have been beneficial for him? Overwhelmed with relief, I rushed forward, ignoring the attendant’s command to “Stay behind the yellow line, ma’am,” and wrapped Max in a tight hug, tears flowing like a river.
Typically, retrieving an unaccompanied minor requires intense identification checks. A simple driver’s license won’t cut it. The airlines take this very seriously, as letting the wrong child walk out is a nightmare scenario. As I fumbled through my purse for the necessary documents, the flight attendant simply smiled and said, “And you must be the mother.” “Yes,” I sniffed, still clinging to Max. The attendant asked, “Max, is this your mom?” To which he responded, “Well, she wouldn’t be my first choice, but yeah, she’s my mom.” Classic Max.
Fast forward 14 years, and Max was preparing to fly to Iraq. I found myself reliving that same heart-wrenching experience. After dropping him off, the tears flowed again. When he returned home a year later, I welcomed him with another public display of affection. This time, he grinned and said, “It’s okay, Mom. Go crazy.”
Now, I’ve decided that no matter how old they get, kids shouldn’t be further away than a quick drive. It’s just too tough on us moms. And when Max gets redeployed, I might just sneak along—though I’ll keep that plan under wraps for now. Who knows, I might end up flying as an “unaccompanied mother.”
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Summary:
This article recounts the humorous and heartfelt experience of a mother sending her six-year-old son, Max, on a solo flight to Disneyland. It captures the anxiety, joy, and bittersweet moments of parenting, ultimately emphasizing the emotional toll of having children grow up and venture out into the world.