Finding my luggage at the baggage claim always gives me a bit of a panic attack. I have this paranoia about them losing the stuff. It isn’t completely unreasonable. When I travelled to Ireland in 2005 they lost my bag and I was without toothbrush and clean clothes for two days. Talk about traumatizing. Not only was I on an unfamiliar continent, but also I was without the normal comforts of cleanliness. Ever since that trip I have conscientiously packed a change of clothes and a toothbrush in my carry-on, just for good measure.
So there I was, walking through the Portland airport, following the signs that read “Baggage Claim.” As I walked and walked and walked some more, a mounting sense of panic started in me. What if I took too long to walk to the baggage claim and my baggage was whisked away forever? What if I was going the wrong direction in the airport and I’d have to walk back to the other end later on? What if I couldn’t find the baggage claim? What if they lost my luggage? I was in a strange state and I was alone. I don’t generally like being alone. Any worry that may lay hold of me triples when I’m all by my lonesome. I work myself into a frenzied nonsensical tizzy and burst into tears in the most public of places. I was fine until I got down to the baggage claim. Much to my dismay, there were 20 carousels for baggage and none of them had my flight number on them. I started imagining the long hike back through the airport, racing against the monster that eats the luggage of tardy passengers.
By the time my mental state had approached sheer panic, I had made it back to the first of the carousels. There I discovered (to my great relief) that my flight information was now emblazoned in the red lights above it. I recognized the people – who had just begun to trickle in – as my fellow travelers. After a few minutes, my bag came sliding along. So much for the bag-eating monster. I picked it up and headed outside to wait for Lisa and the little boys to come pick me up.
I was settled into the van in a matter of minutes. The two munchkin boys in the back seat were shy at first, but warmed up to me quickly. William (age 3) said to me, “Eskuse me, Miss Bwidet?”
“Miss Bridget?” I thought. Since when was I old enough to be called “Miss Bridget”?
“Yes, William?”
As he began telling me about how cool airplanes are, I listened, struggling to understand the three-year old lingo. His mother kindly interpreted for me, repeating his sentences for me. After a few minutes and several instances of him calling me “Miss Bwidet,” I assured him that he could just call me “Bridget”, if that was ok with his mommy. I looked inquiringly at Lisa, hoping that she would indeed be ok with this. She nodded and assured William that he could call me “Bridget.” His forehead was wrinkled up in consternation about this new development for a while, but he eventually got used to it.
“Miss Bwi… I mean, jus Bwidet?”
I grinned at this new title. Just Bridget. I could live with that.
Occasionally, his mother slipped into addressing me by the more formidable title, but William was quick to correct her:
“No, Mommy. Dat’s siwwy. She isn’t Miss Bwidet. She jus Bwidet!”
Over the next twenty-four hours, I slowly adjusted to his particular brand of three year old speak. Every toddler has a slightly different rendition of the English language and it takes a while for the ear to adapt. The next morning, we had a conversation that went something like this.
“Tan I have yummy twators, Bwidet?”
“You want tractors?”
“No, ttwwwators!”
“I don’t have any tractors to give to you, William.”
“No, not kwakors! Teese twators!”
It finally occurred to me that William commonly mixes up his “t” and “k” sounds. He wanted the “yummy crackers.” Thankfully, I remembered this before his frustration flooded over into tears and I quickly retrieved the crackers for him. Happiness ensued, and he continued on his merry way.
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