Remember That Time: My toddler triggered airport security & rode me like a racehorse to the gate
Why the word “RELAX” in airport lounges should be classified as satire.
Lark and I fly alot. With grandparents up and down the eastern side of Australia – and my desire for her to form a special bond with them – we find ourselves at the airport at least twice a month.
She’s two now, which means she no longer gets to ride shotgun on my lap for free. Honestly, being in the 97th percentile for height, she hasn’t fit comfortably there since approximately… eight months ago.
Airline policy now considers her a full-fare paying seat holder, weighing in at a tiny, majestic 13.5kg.
We know because she likes to weigh herself on the luggage scales.
Passengers: entertained.
Airport staff: …less thrilled.
We arrived at the airport ready to glide through security with grace and ease – which, as any parent of a toddler knows, is an optimistic delusion rooted in deep psychological self-preservation.
Bags, jackets and toys into trays
Stop toddler from getting into the tray
Carry toddler through the metal detector
Get randomly selected for the bomb powder test
“Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” becomes my internal soundtrack
Receive yet another random bag check because apparently, I give off suspicious mum energy
Toddler bathroom trip (upstairs toilets are under renovation, of course)
Toddler presses the automatic door button while “occupied”
Wash hands after reminding her not to put her hands in the toilet again
Share a toasted egg and bacon wrap
Negotiate that iced tea is not apple juice
Decant actual juice into both bottle and cup because daycare germs
Watch her refuse the cup
Remind her the bottle is not a snorkel
Accept defeat re: clean shirt
All while waiting for the lounge screen to change from RELAX to GATE OPEN, which is frankly deranged messaging for a situation involving a two-year-old who has no fear, no brakes, and legs like a tiny Olympian.
RELAX is a lie when travelling with a toddler.
Twice I had to chase her, balancing breakfast like a contestant on a sadistic game show, scooping her away from the stairs while trying not to frisbee egg across the carpet.
Then: GATE OPEN.
Lovely. Perfect. Let's go.
Except Lark had other plans.
As I bent down to pick up our bags, she bolted.
I swung my backpack over one shoulder, slung the nappy bag cross-body like a soldier going into battle, and sprinted.
And that’s when I saw her – inside the double-door exit corridor.
You know the one: the secured walkway between the lounge and baggage claim.
Once you go through the first door, the only option is the second door.
The corridor of no return.
The place where you definitely, absolutely, are not supposed to re-enter from.
But… darling Lark…
We are not collecting bags.
We were supposed to be boarding.
BOARDING.
Right now.
She is that quick.
Noah Lyles, hold onto your gold, sweetheart. A toddler is coming for your legacy, and she is wearing Peppa Pig Crocs.
Thankfully, the second door sensor didn’t detect her. I could still fix this.
Lark is now stuck in the double-door exit corridor.
I stood at the lounge end access, the door opened, and I coaxed her toward me.
She tiptoed back.
I thought we were safe.
And then… the other sensor – the one designed to stop intruders – detected her.
The doors slammed.
Sirens blared.
Red and blue lights strobed like we were staging a small-scale prison break.
A booming automated voice: go back, wrong way, go back, wrong way.
I was not prepared for a high-stakes airport separation drama before 8am.
Lark froze. Eyes wide. Hands shook.
Her face crumpled.
My chest cracked open.
I reached out – and met glass.
Security arrived, took one look, and visibly exhaled.
No threat.
Just a mother and her tiny lion cub separated by 6mm of dramatic infrastructure.
Our options:
She can’t come back in
I can go out, coax her through the other exit, pray the sensor recognises her this time, re-clear security, and attempt to make our flight.
So, dear reader, with our options reduced to one, we committed.
Reunited on the baggage side, and I scooped her up – still shaking – and sprinted for round two.
Loaded up with a backpack, nappy bag, Bingo and Snickers from Bluey. We ran.
I thought I was sprinting magnificently.
Until she started yelling:
“NEIGH! NEIGH! NEIGH!”
At full joyful volume.
She was galloping.
I was her horse.
I was not sprinting.
I was cantering.
A lolloping, ungraceful canter.
Turnsout horse riding is a contact sport after all.
When reality hits a little differently.
We burst back into security sceening.
The staff saw us and said:
“Ohhhh. That was you!”
You’re the reason the sirens went off.
Famous.
Airport famous.
They waved us through like VIP chaos ambassadors.
We made the gate – panting, wild-eyed – one of us neighing triumphantly.
We boarded like nothing unusual had occurred.
Just a casual Wednesday.
And here’s the part that lives in my soul:
Somewhere between the lounge and the baggage hall, I reminded myself:
She runs because she trusts I’ll chase her.
She calls because she trusts I’ll answer.
She trembles because she knows I’ll hold her when the world gets too big.
That’s the whole job of motherhood, isn’t it?
Be the soft place.
Be the steady one.
Be the horse, when required.
One day, she’ll run beside me.
But for now, I run with her in arms.
And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Even though she has her own seat now, I’m lucky she still wants snuggle in my arms.
