A Big Easy Mothers' Day Eve

The taxi showed up early and my driver was just the right amount of chatty. TSA pre-check got me to the front of the line and saved me the trouble of retying my shoes and repacking my laptop, but the chicken caesar wrap in my carry-on raised a few eyebrows. Smooth sailing, like all good things, has its limits.

Halfway through my youngest child's college career, I should be accustomed to the assault of nostalgia brought about by each campus visit, a blurry multi-generational collage of vivid images frozen in time. The launch of my first one on a blistering hot day in D.C., dive coffee shops and long, aimless walks in New York with my second, a sickening beignet binge in the French Quarter with my third. The long ago day in upstate New York when I feigned confidence and independence and encouraged my own parents to go home.

I am overwhelmed, even more than usual, by the passage of time. Helping my daughter move her things from her dorm room to her apartment, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror I carried under my arm, the one I had bought for her when I moved her in freshman year. When did I become so old, so bewildered, the way I always thought my parents looked when they visited. I marveled at the quaint charm of my child's first apartment, the upper floor of an adorable albeit ancient looking home that, in all likelihood, is younger than I am.

As always, I settle into a more comfortable rhythm when we venture off campus into the real world, even though New Orleans is as far from reality as any place I've ever been. Magazine Street is a motley cocktail party, with people of all ages and sizes in all sorts of costumes juggling cups filled with alcohol and plates loaded with food as they spill onto the sidewalk. Drivers are good natured and unfazed by the constant stream of pedestrians in the middle of the street. The full spectrum of beauty and ugliness is well represented, and there is a refreshing absence of selfconsciousness.

Hours earlier and a world away, I could feel my cheeks redden when I remembered the chicken caesar wrap in my bag. I knew it the moment the conveyor belt stopped, the guy in front of me staring wistfully at his carry-on so tantalizingly close but stalled out of reach in the dark tunnel while two agents squinted at the x-ray image. They appeared more amused than concerned, which is why I knew immediately it was the wrap, a thick cylinder with rounded ends. Nothing like busting an old broad with a dildo. (Not even close, I’m afraid. The wrap, soft and wilted after an hour without refrigeration, would offer me some small measure on the plane ride, but nothing even approaching what the TSA agents had imagined.)

Long after the embarrassing bag check and a world away, long enough after the disconcerting glimpse into the mirror, I felt remarkably unselfconscious just hanging in a tattoo parlor, navigating the crowded sidewalks, drinking wine and devouring mountains of Italian food with my daughter and her self-described quirky friend. A feast of simple pleasures against an oddly non threatening backdrop of bacchanalian revelry. I didn't exactly feel young, but I no longer felt old either. The three of us -- me, my quirky daughter and my new quirky friend -- enjoying a moment in time that will remain vivid for a long time, even as it fades into the blurry collage.

Sometimes a chicken caesar wrap is just a chicken caesar wrap. Sometimes it isn't. The possibilities, I suppose, are endless.