British Customs

Most of you know that I decided at the last minute to fly to Europe with the baby.  Big news, even an infant needs a passport now.  Expediting a passport is a hassle and ridiculously expensive.  Trust me on this one:  if you are pondering fleeing the country any time soon, get bebe's passport now.  Also plan on it taking over an hour just to get the photos taken.  Really?  Exactly four inches of shoulder must show?  Both ears?  And I can't even have a thumb in the photo?  Baby also can't have his eyes even partially closed nor can he be smiling or laughing.  Seriously.  And, furthermore, they do this on a glaring white background which is a further disaster if your child has white blonde hair and is pale.  My beautiful child looks like an x-ray in his photo.  The tragedy.

So, anyway, back to the point.  Bebe boy and I fly into Heathrow.  He was a ROCK STAR on the plane.  Not a peep, whimper or cry out of him.  Brilliant.  Slept like a champ.  The only sound he made was a case of the giggles somewhere over Iceland.  Yes, he laughs in his sleep -- gets that from me.  What can I say?  We have the gift of joy.  The man behind me on the plane recorded the sound on his phone and is now using that as his ring tone.  My baby's belly laughs are that adorable.  Not to brag...

So Rock Star and I land.  All is well.  We are zipping through Heathrow with the stroller, a carry on and my purse.  I have NEVER carried this much stuff on a flight.  Well, not since 1997 when I became a consultant.  In case you don't know, the word "consultant" means "travels all the time, eats and drinks too much and NEVER carries more than a small suitcase and a laptop case.  Never.  Not even to a wedding.  Their own wedding."  Seriously, I went to Africa for three weeks with one medium sized bag and that included me packing food (just in case).

But now that I am a mom (even a low-maintenance, low-drama mama), I required two suitcases, two carry-ons and a stroller for three weeks in Europe and Texas.  Oh egads.  I am THAT woman now.  Ughhh.

Back to the point, baby is in his stroller, carry on is tucked into the very trendy stroller, I am toting my purse and we are zooming through Heathrow.  Feeling very trendy and continental.  Until we get to British customs.  The bane of my existence.

In case you don't know, I am American.  I have no intention of giving up my citizenship.  I loved living overseas and would like to move back to Europe in the future but I am not immigrating nor am I ever going to qualify for government hand-outs.  Anywhere.  Not even Sweden.

However, the British customs people are somehow convinced that I am running away and planning on mooching off their government.  I swear, "mooch" or "dreg of society" is somewhere on my permanent record in the UK.  It must be, why else would they hate funny, charming me so much?  I spend a lot of money in their country and totally build up the coffers.

The customs line is divided into "UK and EU" people over here and "Filthy Foreigner Who Want Handouts" over there.  Into the FFWWH line I go.  This line is always crazy long and full of people who all seem to cough a lot and wear muted colors.  I swear, it reminds me the "huddled masses" from the 1800s.

Now far be it from me but I always thought of myself as a bright spot in this line.  Friendly.  American.  Wearing pastels. I speak English (not their English but not Russian either).  I know all the answers, have all the papers.  Have return tickets.  I am practically a professional.

I get to the front of the line and angry lady says "Where is his landing card?" pointing towards bebe boy.    "They said that it was one landing card per family so he does not have one."  "HE NEEDS HIS OWN.  Get to the back of the line."  I mean, really, it is 10 quick questions and I can't stay here and fill it out?  Come on now, lady.  I can have it done before you are through scowling at me.

No luck.  Cranky sends me to the back of the line where I go without too much protest for fear of a strip search.

Lucky me, a flight from Russia has just landed.  Dear gawd.  I swear most of them were drunk or refugees.  How did a nice girl like me end up in this line?  Can't I get grandfathered in since I have no intention of declaring asylum or something?  But nooooo.  There I stand in line with bebe.  Even he (at the age of one year and one day) covered his mouth with his coat since the coughers were surrounding us.  I was looking for a shirt that said "Got TB?" on it.

So to the back of the line we go.  I am no longer feeling trendy or continental.  Alas.

Luck of luck, I get the same bitch again.  I hand her both of our landing cards and our passports.  Cranky looks at the baby and declares him pale.  No-flippin-duh, lady.  How many tan platinum blondes do you know?  However, I can't be too sarcastic for fear of getting sent to the sick line with the hacking Russians.  Just what this holiday needs is a session in quarantine.  "Yep, we are a pale family.  But healthy.  Eat lots of spinach and yogurt.  Like Greek Popeyes."  I know I am babbling but I can't stop.  Please, please don't send us to the sickie line.  At this moment I understand why Michael Jackson traveled with a mask on.

She looks our documents over and says, completely straight-faced, "You did not fill out his occupation.  What is his job?"  "Umm, seriously?  He is a baby he does not have a job."  "What does he do?"  {Clearly, the problem must be that I don't understand the words "occupation" or "job."  When in doubt assume illiteracy}  "He does not do anything.  He is a baby.  He eats, poos and plays."  "Har-rumph."

Then she asks me "Did he fill this out himself?"  "Are you joking?  Look at him.  He is one.  He can't write or read yet.  The line was long but not THAT long, lady."  "Har-rumph."

And with that I took my pale, illiterate, unemployed baby to England.