I set my phone up yesterday so that it would text me when The Kid’s plane left Chicago.  I was glad I did that because somehow I had gotten the arrival time an hour off…The Kid was due to arrive at Love at 7:30,  not 8:30 like I had thought.  So Joey and I grabbed Henry and got in the car.  We drove to Love with my stomach growling away…we had decided to wait to eat dinner until we had retreived The Kid.

I made a big sign so that The Kid would easily be able to find us.  We came in and stood by the baggage claim for awhile, and I held up my sign.  I got lots of “look, that girl’s holding up a sign that says ‘the kid’ on it” and “I wonder who The Kid is” and stuff like that.

I ignored them.

I was intent on finding The Kid.

But then we realized we were standing in the wrong place, that only Southwest passengers came this way.  So we rerouted.  The place we were purportedly supposed to find The Kid was over by the Cinnabon.

We got there, and there was no one there except a bunch of TSA agents.  We began to worry that we were at the wrong airport…the flight number wasn’t shoring on the Arrivals board.  But then we noticed it said Southwest Arrivals and thought maybe, just maybe, it didn’t include American.

Joey walked up to one of the TSA agents and said, “Um, is this where the American passengers come?”

“Ayup,” said the plumpy blue-shirted agent.  “Sees, it’s like this.  Mostly this airport’s for Southwest, and all the other airlines are like the stepchildren, they’re stuffed off in the corner like so.  He’ll be comin’ through thataway,” he said.  “The American arrival times are over by their check-in counter.  Younder-like.”

“Thanks,” Joey said.  He walked back over to the Southwest Arrivals board I was standing at and repeated the TSA agent’s wisdom.

But I was still kind of worried.  THE KID HAD STILL NOT ARRIVED.

I got sick of it and called The Kid.

“Where are you, man,” I demanded.

“Off the plane.  Your airport is dead,” he said.  “And also really, really long.  I’ve been walking forever.”

“Can’t help you, I’ve never been here before,” I said.  “Anyways, hurry up.”

We hung up on each other and then I started getting antsy.  “He’s almost here,” I said to Joey, who was holding a warm Cinnabon in its box.  Cinnabons at the airport are Laird Tradition (although…what ISN’T Laird Tradition?!) and The Kid had missed out in Chicago because his plane had been late.

We kept looking at the place the TSA guy said The Kid would come from.

He was not coming.

And not coming.

And still not coming.

“Is that The  Kid?” I asked, about twenty times.  I had taken out my contacts and forgotten my glasses, so everybody that far away pretty much looked the same to me.

“No, that is not The Kid,” Joey would reply.  “That’s not even a man.”

Finally…

“THE KID!”

I dropped the sign…

And ran like a banshee.  (Actually not really, these pictures were staged before the Kid even got off the plane, and a whole bunch of people looked at me weird while Joey was taking them.  So there.)

When The Kid finally did come around the corner, his cheeks turned real red because of the obnoxious sign I was holding.  (I figured I had done my job well.  Older sisters are supposed to embarrass their younger brothers.)

Then this guy walked in front of The Kid and marred our picture. And right after that, the battery on the camera died.

We loaded The Kid up into the car and drove to Wild About Harry’s, where we ate brisket hot dogs and french fries.  Then we went home, where I went to bed early and Joey and The Kid walked to Half Price Books in the dark.

We’re just doing pokey stuff today.  We got groceries so we can now feed that Kid something other than Mt. Dew (srsly, that’s what we had for breakfast) and he even earned his keep and helped us clean house.  Mom done taught him well.

Anyways, it’s cold out.

So…we’re going to go now.  Tonight we’re meeting Cuz for dinner at Freebirds, then we’re gonna go see Slumdog.

I bet you wish you were here, eh?