Brats Without Borders

You know how you pack really carefully for a trip, but forget something, anyway?

On the way to Vancouver, mom realized that she had left her heart behind at home. En route to a five-day conference, maternal guilt kicked in the night before, as Kuki helped mom pack her bags.

Kuki: “It’s my happy birthday tomorrow. I want a pink cake.”
Mom: “I’ll bake you a cake as soon as I get back.”
Kuki: “Where you going, Amma?”
Mom: “I’m going to work. I’ll be back soon.”
Kuki: “Can I come with you? No…? Can you stay home with me? Please, Amma?”

On the plane, mom stared forlornly at her in-flight magazine, wishing she hadn’t missed her princess’s big day. The initial excitement of being out of the office faded, as she realized that she didn’t know a soul at the conference. "I'm going to have an awful time," decided the eternal pessimist.

As she walked out of the airport, mom thought she had landed in Singapore by mistake. In the melting pot crowd, the Caucasians stood out like a devout Muslim in a Hindu temple. Korean, Thai, Chinese, Malaysian, Japanese and Indian restaurants whizzed past as the airport shuttle sped downtown. Multiracial couples ambled along the sidewalks, sharing umbrellas and kisses. Mom stared at them wistfully and sighed, hugging her laptop case closer and looking at the empty seat beside her.

Once the conference began, mom discovered that most of the 1,500 participants from over 40 countries were hungry for company, as well. A warm smile, a polite handshake, a complimentary observation about a person's clothes or shoes were enough to break the ice and start a conversation flowing among the seminar attendees - almost all women in their thirties and forties.

The quality of men present at the conference eliminated any sort of sexual tension, and mom spent a glorious five days networking and collecting business cards during the day, while filling her mind with Robson Street eye-candy at night.

Nursing a smoothie at a roadside café, mom would watch Paris Hilton look-alikes shop at Hermès with a pug or a maltipoo in their arms; inhale the aroma from a roadside crêperie; catch snippets of Québécois French; debate between Yakisoba or vegetable biryani for dinner; and, marvel at the flatness of an exposed belly or the smoothness of a passing cleavage.

Eventually, five days away from the family proved a bit much for mom, and she looked forward to returning home and squeezing her children.

As 200 people snaked their way through U.S. Immigration and Customs at the Vancouver airport, a pair of identical twins in a double stroller pierced the din with their primal shrieks. While their harried parents filled out forms, juggled car seats, provided snacks and attended to the older sibling, the 12-month-olds spat out their pacifiers and voiced their displeasure at being strapped down.

Mom silently sympathized with the parents and fervently hoped the kids were not on her flight. As luck would have it, the brats sat right behind her. For three hours and 40 minutes, the babies shrieked, blared, cried, howled, screeched, shouted, shrilled, wailed and yelled, while the parents smiled weakly and avoided looking at their fellow passengers.

As the vexed travelers stampeded to deplane, a burly gentleman in a Stetson hat and cowboy boots walked up to the family. Fixing the parents with a steely glare, he said, "Ah got two words of advice for ya: 'Liquid Benadryl!'"