Ninja Mom

Dallas and me are currently not cool.

Cancelled on journey home, cancelled on the journey back home (yes, I know I used the word “home” twice), I used to show Dallas some love when other people complained about it.

But guys, I have some hard feelings about Dallas right now.

Not great, Bob.

Anyway, I left you guys at the boarding gate with questions of my PCR test being invalid.

The lady handing me my hotel vouchers informed me that the Japanese government would honor my test because it was the airline’s fault and not my own.

I sure hoped so. I was already in limbo with my incorrect form, but there was absolutely nothing I could do about either situation.

We loaded up, went back to the shuttle bus area… checked into a nicer hotel this time, and departed the next morning again for the airport.

As we waited to board, we held our breath to see if it would actually happen.

It did, I texted goodbye to my family behind and “see you soon” to my husband and kiddos ahead.

Guys, this flight went a lot better than the other one. I was able to walk with her for a few hours, and while I put up with some snarky flight attendants, we landed with no show-stopping performances by my toddler or myself.

The entry process to Japan would take a good 4 hours to complete including circuits of the terminals and lots of paperwork to be checked at every station.

My first station was the big clencher though– would they let me through?

As I waited, I eyed each desk trying to decide which officials looked the nicest, and which one I might hope to get. When it was finally my turn, I sat down and handed her the stack of papers, minus my test results.

I gently brought up about my flight being cancelled, and she acknowledged the situation. Because of it, she hardly gave a glance at my Mofa form– just confirmed it was checked negative. Because it was out of date, they didn’t really care.

I breathed a sigh of relief as she stamped my documents and gave me directions for proceeding. Time for more Q tips up the nose.

Lots of walking later, clutching my stack of papers, we sat in our assigned seats, waiting for the results to be processed.

And waited.

Every person from my flight was processed through, and new arrivals were being seated on the other side of the enormous meeting room.

I alone stood pacing to keep my baby asleep, feeling all the more conspicuous each time they called another number that wasn’t mine. Folks from the other side of the room stared over at me.

A good 45 minutes after everyone else was gone, we received the go-ahead. We processed through immigration, got transferred to different desks to complete that (which made me really nervous), and got stopped in customs as apparently the Gerber meals I had packed for my baby contained meat.

But they let me pass. I was able to connect with my “non-commercial-transportation” but professional driver that functioned as a taxi driver but wasn’t in fact, a taxi driver.

Ronja and I passed OUT.

Three hours later, I pointed out the entrance to our complex to the driver as my kids burst from the front door in greeting.

They had pizza waiting and were so excited to tell me everything. My husband prepared a bath with lavender after all our hassles. Ronja and I sat, somewhat dazed but so relieved to be in our miniature home again.

I checked into the app from the government on my phone to confirm that I had arrived at my 2-week quarantine location. Tomorrow I would allow myself to rest and hold all my kids all day, and then I would start packing.

Because in 18 days, we’d be moving.