Today she flew to Tampa to spend the remainder of the week with her best friend.
That's where "life is an adventure" comes into play.
We left the house around 6:30am to get her to the Atlanta airport for an 8:55 flight.
After stopping by
I had no idea that morning rush hour would begin seven miles north of the MARTA station.
We crept into the station, got our Breeze pass, boarded "The MARTA" (that's what the Princess calls it), and headed toward the airport.
Thirteen stops stood between us and Hartsfield-Jackson. That is, once we started moving...apprarently there really IS a time schedule for The MARTA.
Approximately 700 people boarded and unboarded at each stop. Taking precious time, making us later by the second.
The Princess got more and more quiet as it took longer and longer to get there.
Once we got off the train we were one-hundred feet from AirTran and three minutes late for her plane. "No problem," the nice AirTran lady said. The next plane for Tampa leaves at--oh, wait a minute (never a good sign)--at 2:07 this afternoon."
The Princess teared up but maintained her composure. We got a cup of coffee and I shared with her what "grown-ups" would do in this situation.
By contrast, if it had been either of my sons, I would have dropped them off at North Springs MARTA Station and heard when they got to the airport: "Hey, Dad, my plane doesn't leave for another five hours and I can play around the airport until then!"
Then I would have waited for the call from the authorities so I could go bail them out.
But not The Princess.
My baby girl Emily turned twenty-five the day before this trip, but grew up immeasurably in the airport last week. I called to check on her once I got on the road north of Atlanta.
"I'm fine, Dad. I was okay once you left," she said.
I never thought I'd hear those words. I'm not sure I ever want to hear them again.
But she is. Fine.