Airport Security is Not Amused

I recently returned from a trip to Phoenix to visit my sister-in-law, which reminded me of an unforgettable experience from five years ago. We were on our way home from my niece’s wedding in Arizona.

It had been a beautiful wedding. My kids played Pachelbel’s Canon in D on their stringed instruments as my niece walked down the aisle. My youngest was the most adorable ring bearer that ever existed—fight me on it.

Then came the part no one ever remembers fondly: the airport. We were heading back to snowy Pittsburgh with five kids in tow, each carrying luggage, backpacks, and who-knows-what else. We must have looked like a circus act trying to get through security.

“Empty your water bottles!” I repeated 1,000 times. “Take off your shoes! No, you leave your shoes on!” “Take the laptops and iPads out of your backpacks!” It was like directing a Broadway production—except no one was listening.

We finally managed to get everything onto the conveyor belt, and the TSA agent waved us through the metal detector. Everything made it through just fine… except my eight-year-old son’s water bottle. Because of course, he didn’t dump out the water.

Our options were either to toss the water bottle or for one of us to go back out of security, dump the water, and come through again. Now, this wasn’t just any water bottle. It was a metal Contigo. Not exactly the Rolls-Royce of water bottles, but at $20 a pop, I wasn’t about to let it go—especially after replacing so many lost ones over the years.

Luckily, we were early and had time to spare. I volunteered as tribute and trucked back to the security line.

I dumped out the water and got back in line. This time, without the chaos of kids, I felt like a pro. I put the water bottle on the conveyor belt and stepped up to the magneto-swishy body scanner thing.

On the other side, the TSA woman waved me over. “It’s showing something on your back. I need to pat you down.”

I spread my arms and legs, trying to act cool. She started patting my back, then patted the hood of my sweatshirt.

“Got it,” she said, and pulled something out of my hood.

A string cheese.

A STRING CHEESE?? In my hood??

“Oh,” I said, laughing nervously. “I have five kids…”

Who the freak put a string cheese in my hood??

She didn’t crack a smile. “I’m going to have to take this.”

“It’s still good,” I said. “You could eat it, if you’re hungry.”

She just stared at me.

“Okay, bye then,” I mumbled, walking away with what dignity I had left.

When I got back to my kids, I put my hands on my hips and stared them down. “Which one of you hooligans put a string cheese in my hood?”

My eleven-year-old son burst out laughing.

Bingo. Found the culprit.