Hello, and welcome! I’m Katherine, a Canadian writer, mom of 3, author of Childhood Unplugged: Practical Advice to Get Kids Off Screens and Find Balance. I’m a contributor to the Globe and Mail and a speaker on behalf of The Anxious Generation. I give talks worldwide about how to reclaim childhood and put tech in its rightful place, where it’s a tool, not a toy. Please reach out if you need a speaker! Learn more on my website.
Travels With Alex / Musings on motherhood in Mississippi
It was around midnight, after 7 hours of waiting in a far-flung departure gate at Toronto Pearson airport and being told to get on and off our plane twice, dashing our hopes of takeoff, that my 15-year-old son Alex turned to me and said, in a deadpan tone, “I’m starting to think going to Mississippi isn’t very fun.”
I started laughing, and it was hard to stop. I was so tired. By that point, we’d learned that Washington, D.C., had shut down its airport due to heavy rain, and our connecting flight from D.C. to Jackson, Mississippi, had long departed. By 1:30 a.m., we found ourselves standing in a long line at the American Airlines desk in a desolate terminal, hoping to rebook our now-nonexistent flight.
“Want some Wendy’s?” Alex asked. Off he went to find two crunchy chicken burgers, which were the most delicious thing in the whole world as I stood there in the unmoving line, trying to figure out what to do next.
I needed to get to Jackson for a big keynote presentation on Wednesday afternoon. It was the middle of the night, technically early Tuesday morning. All flights out of Toronto were full that day, and ours wouldn’t be rebooked. I found a hotel room, and Alex and I collapsed into the most expensive shared queen bed (he swore it was smaller) I’ve ever slept in for so little time.
At 4 a.m. I got a text from my agent, saying the only option was to drive to D.C. to catch our connecting flight to Jackson, which had been rebooked for that evening. Semi-conscious, I looked at Google Maps—it was a 10-hour drive—slogged through some mental math, then set three alarms for 7 a.m. We were at the car rental counter and on the road shortly after, inching through Toronto’s notorious rush-hour traffic toward the U.S. border at Niagara Falls.
Alex was remarkably cheerful. His dry one-liners were interspersed with groans of disbelief at what we had to do. I love a good road trip, but only after a good night’s sleep, and ideally with less time pressure. I knew I could make it to D.C. if nothing went wrong—but that was a big if.
There is something thrilling about needing to execute a task perfectly, under pressure. Alex, who had just finished watching some ridiculous action movie on my laptop while waiting in the airport, waxed poetic about what it would be like to work for INTERPOL. I pointed out that I felt like we did in that moment. Important mission assigned. Must arrive at nation’s capital no later than 6 PM to catch last flight to destination. He didn’t agree with my interpretation (“That’s lame”), but I liked it.
We proceeded to have one of the wildest, fastest, and most memorable drives of my life, zipping through the gorgeous winding mountain roads of northern New York and Pennsylvania. We made strategic speedy pit stops. He was responsible for buying food while I filled up the car with gas.
At one roadside spot in the Allegheny mountains, he emerged carrying a hot fried catfish sandwich, a beef brisket sandwich, a bag of Nerds gummies, a Coke, and a Celsius energy drink (“so many flavors here, Mom, it’s crazy”). That was our lunch. Not my usual go-to, but I rolled with it—and surprisingly enjoyed it.
He DJ’d (too much rap for my tastes) and navigated, but mostly we talked, for hours. Alex, who’s about to turn 16 this weekend, does not have a smartphone yet, and on that drive, it struck me just how precious that fact is. Apart from using my phone for maps and music, we had no choice but to entertain each other. Whenever I felt temped to look at my phone during brief breaks, I resisted the urge, because it wasn’t fair to leave him behind while I dipped into an online world.
I told him stories about my life. He asked why he’d never heard some of them before; I didn’t know. He regaled me with jokes, hilarious observations, and tales of his summer vacation antics with friends (he confessed to backflipping off the break wall into Lake Huron, which I immediately prohibited). He argued with me about why our family is “so weird… it’s not fair,” and philosophized about his current quality of life (he thinks there’s a lot of room for improvement), and fretted about what career to pursue (“it has to make a lot of money”).
At one point, he told me to hold on a second, and I started counting, “One, Mississippi, two, Mississippi…” We both dissolved into laughter. He queued up Bruno Mars’ “Uptown Funk” and we both sang the “Jackson, Mississippi!” part at the same time, which delighted us immensely. Then he cranked “Mississippi Queen” by Mountain, and we rocked out to that for a while.
“Just think, all these years I’ve been practicing spelling Mississippi, and I finally get to use it in real life,” he commented drily. He challenged me to spelling races, and then wondered if I could spell Tennessee as quickly as Mississippi. (I cannot.) More laughter.
He is my oldest, so I’m new to the whole teenage-boy thing, and now I understand why many parents make exasperated comments about this stage. It is astonishing to witness that furious wobble between childhood and adulthood.
He is teetering on the brink of becoming a man, impressing me at times with his maturity and capability and witty comments, but also revealing childlike reactions at times that remind me of the fact that he’s still just a kid, even though he towers over me at 6’3”, and when I hug him, my face goes straight into his chest. What happened to the little baby who once felt like an extension of my body?
We made it to D.C.’s Ronald Reagan airport right on time. “I wasn’t sure we’d do it,” Alex confessed, as we ate overpriced Chinese food in the terminal. “Same,” I admitted, savouring a most well-deserved glass of sauvignon blanc. The feeling of satisfaction was immense, as was the exhaustion.
Jackson itself is an interesting place. We hired a taxi driver to take us downtown. He was a jolly man who looked like his body had grown around and molded to his driver’s seat. He told us he likes to hunt. He said, “When people drown in the reservoir, no one ever finds the bodies, prolly cuz of the ‘gators.”
He dropped us off in front of a couple restaurants that had good online reviews but appeared closed. When I tried one door, it was bustling inside. This happened to us several times. Maybe because it’s so hot, there’s not much sign of life from the outside, with blackout curtains and blinds drawn. We ate fried green tomatoes with crawfish sauce and spicy gumbo and drank sweet Mississippi tea.
The civil rights museum was deeply moving. I watched Alex take it in, pausing to read the heart-wrenching quotes and descriptions of living conditions and the awful lists of everyone who’s been lynched, and for what, over the decades. He snapped to attention when a former school principal told us that the last town with segregated high schools only shut them down in 2015. “Some black kids went to the white school, recruited for sports, but no white kids went to the black school.”
One of my favourite ways to explore a new city is to walk around it, so I suggested walking from the civil rights museum to Fondren, the historic district where the movie “The Help” was filmed. It was only 2.2 miles (3.5 km) on my map, which isn’t far, but in the oppressive heat, it felt like slogging through mud. Alex kept telling me to move faster, but I couldn’t. “Your struggle is mental, not physical,” he said with stereotypical teenage impatience.
We walked past old wooden mansions interspersed with abandoned commercial spaces and derelict bungalows. A lone open café provided much-needed fuel in the form of iced coffee. We carried out a cup of ice, rubbing ice cubes on our necks and arms, watching the water evaporate almost instantly.
The sidewalks were in a serious state of disrepair, and we didn’t see anyone else walking, which made more sense when a server told us later that the temperature that day was 107˚F (42˚C). Then she added, “Jackson was the murder capital of the world per capita up until six months ago, so y’all had better look out.” Alex raised an eyebrow at me.
During a layover on the way home, an elderly couple asked if we were married. I struggled to contain my laughter, so as not to embarrass them, while gleefully waiting for Alex to return to share that juicy detail. He was predictably mortified, though he’s used to us sometimes being mistaken for siblings. That’s one gratifying aspect of having a baby young.
Motherhood took me by surprise when I was 21 and continues to do so. The path is new, every day. I never quite feel like I’ve figured it out, but I do know that I love the challenge and the daily reward of watching this tall, lanky, opinionated boy stretch into adulthood. I’m aware of the impending end of his childhood. He’s about to get his driver’s license. He wants to go on a year-long exchange next summer. He’s almost ready to leave home. I’ll be his mother forever, but my role will change.
Our trip, despite being a bit of a disaster, felt like a small gift. To be alone with him again, just like it was way back in the beginning; to turn our focus toward each other, free from the tug of a smartphone in his pocket for a little while yet; to watch his face and mind light up with curiosity and commentary about the new things he was observing, reminded me of why the parenting struggle is worth it, and how being a mother has been the most effective way to expand my life in ways I never could have imagined.
When I was newly pregnant with Alex (and struggling to accept my state), I had a vivid dream about a redheaded boy in his late teens who was playing baseball on a grassy field in summer. A voice in my head said, “That’s your son.” Nothing more happened, but I woke up with goosebumps and an eerie sense of having glimpsed the future. I never forgot the dream.
Back home, I recounted the trip’s antics and adventures to my husband, but suddenly my voice caught in my throat, and I found myself crying. “He’s become the boy in the dream. We did it. We made it.” It felt like I’d come full circle.
It goes by so fast. Hold your child close. Put down the phone. Listen to him. Look at him. Sit with him. He won’t be there for long. The world will tug and pull and beg for your attention, but that child is all that matters. The rest is just noise.
Katherine Martinko writes on Substack: https://katherinemartinko.substack.com/p/travels-with-alex
