When we left California in January to embark on the journey home we never expected that a routine airport security check would turn into utter chaos. Yet there we were; my wife, daughter and I subjected to the Department of Homeland Security’s “routine” procedures including putting my wife on file as a potential terrorist and all because of our daughter’s car seat.

Rewind time about one week before when my father and brother invited me to shoot a few firearms in the Owens Valley. It wouldn’t have been my first time but after talking with my wife she revealed to me that she had never shot a gun before and was curious. Being the good husband that I am, I decided that I’d stay home with our daughter while she went out with my family. A few hours later they (my father and brother) tell me that Franchesca not only knocked down several targets but that she managed to do better than everyone else. Somehow it didn’t surprise me because my wife is meticulous about everything she does and not only that she usually performs tasks in a stellar fashion.

Flash forward several days later. My wife, daughter and I are completely drained from the previous day’s events which included of all things to do before you go on a 6-hour flight, Disneyland. We’ve piled everything under our arms; a car seat, folding stroller, four pieces of carry on luggage and a toddler. As we approach the security area, a gentleman in uniform politely asks us to place our belongings in plastic containers including our jackets and shoes. Everything is rolling along smoothly until the carseat sets off the alarm on the explosives scanner. We aren’t notified of this “tiny” problem until we’re approached on the other side of the medal detectors. Apparently the scanner picked up on an explosive residue on the underside of the carseat. My wife and I just stand there motionless, trying to comprehend the situation at hand. “Explosives?”, my wife exclaims. “I don’t understand.”

The security person explains, “We found, or rather, the machine found an explosive residue on your carseat. Do either of you work at or near a company that manufacturers explosives?”. It’s right at this moment that I wanted to take a step back and wonder if we were victims of a practical joke. Explosives? The only explosives that I come in contact with are fake and usually come in the form of video games. My wife stands there pondering the situation and then realizes that it might have been when she went shooting a week before.

“Yeah.”, the security person continued, “Gunpowder is a highly sticky substance and it can stay on clothing and skin for a few weeks after you’ve come in contact with it.” That being the case my wife was padded down and Zoe, our 1-year old daughter, was scanned for any additional explosives, just in case we were smuggling them in that is.