Little Weaver Bird

Yesterday morning, Opal and I were playing in her room, a gift-box of a room where heat gathers even when the rest of the house is frosty as a mug, as her morning nap-time crept up on us.

She contentedly did her own thing, moved back and forth from corner to corner, placing diaper covers and blankets into the laundry basket as if they were delicate glass going in the curio, arranged them and promptly took them out again.

I stretched my hamstrings (mama yogurr, in Opal-ese) until the sudden point in which she was ready to include me in the action, expressed by bringing over the Halloween Dora book (with over 19 flaps!) and plopping it on the floor in front of me, saying read book, mama.

Sure, sweetie. Climb into mommy's lap.

Notha blankie she said and made her way over to lift a mighty heap of blankets and carry them valiantly back to me, teetering like a the single-leg of a heron caught in a gust of wind. She dropped the flannel jumble onto my legs with a grand ugh.

Great idea, honey. Nice book-reading mass. Climb on up.

Notha blankie! she said in the tone that suggests having been unavoidably interrupted by another prominent agenda.

On she went to bury mama in a grand mountain of blankets and diaper covers, one exerting arm-ful at a time. She included each and every stuffed animal in the vicinity—including Crib-Crew, The Bottom Basket Forgotten Ones and Major and Minor Fluffy—leaving no plush character behind. Juice-and-water was placed close enough to reach.

I was spellbound, eyes fixed as if watching a Discovery Channel exclusive on Weaver Birds, masters of nest-making. Finally, she took a sweeping glance around the room for a moment of consideration and quietly concluded her work was complete.

Okay, honey. A job well done.

Into my lap she climbed, wiggled and stirred until she had herself effectively swallowed in the pile in a way that was to her liking. She re-handed me the Dora book, saying Hola Dorey—coupled with a subtle grin that indicated a level of satisfaction with her efforts—and I thus I began.

Hola! I'm Dora and this is Boots...

we were not even halfway into the first page when Opal yelled UP and pushed herself out of my lap, out of the blessed heap—abrupt and urgent—and out of the room entirely through the door that had not been fully closed. Before I set the book down and resurrected from beneath the load, she was down the hall in search of her next venture.

Royalty, Toddlers and Squirrels.

Everyone was in their Sunday-best. Nina even said she went out to buy a dress special for the occasion. A few dozen of us had lined up on either side of the walkway that led to the house, pockets loaded with fresh rose petals for tossing. We were instructed not to step directly on the elaborate Tibetan blessings that had been chalked on the driveway and not to serve the katas outside of the house, please.

Rinpoche was returning from an extended trip to India, and more importantly, coming out of a year and a half retreat. We were posted outside the tremendous and stately home that his wife and daughter had just moved into a few weeks earlier, a house certainly fit for royalty. After greeting the two of them upon exiting the car, our faces would be awaiting him like a string of caricature-beads, eager, excited, efforting to compose ourselves.

He arrived while I fixated on whether a bow or a hat would be more appropriate greeting attire for Opal, surveying the intermittent cloud-chill. It happened so quickly, the appearance of the patten-leather Suburban, the whooping of the crowd and the flying of petals, the brief and warm eye-contact as he passed by in the midst of a toddler squirming to get out of my arms. We were led into the house and Jesse was quickly called away so I commenced to untangle our three katas from a christmas-light-caliber knot while also monitoring my toddler—mighty proud of her new velvet jacket—who had no intentions of either being held or staying put on land. We were called in to offer the katas sooner than I'd expected and so Jesse completed the untangling as we walked, Opal at our side, approaching His and Her Majesty and the Princess who is 10 months Opal's junior.

A dozen or so steps away from Rinpoche, Opal began to cry. She looked up at the Royalty surrounded by extravagant brocades and impeccable formality and turned tail with a shriveled face and eyes threatening to flood. Jesse scooped her up and handed me a kata, pronto. We offered our bows and sincere welcomes and even though everything wound up in its proper place as we shuffled out of the room, the scenario felt like yet another well-intended conundrum that feels so very common when one is traveling with a young child. Especially in the presence of Royalty.

Currently, the only sort of decorum Opal practices is the kind that involves serving afternoon tea to her Golla and Ragetty (Gorilla and Raggety Ann, respectively). She is nowhere near learning that there even exists a proper kind of behavior intended to accompany specific people or accommodate a particular situation.

Your daughter is looking at me like I'm crazy.

I've had people say these very words to me on more than one occasion, usually at the conclusion of omitting long streams of baby-jibberish, earnest tickle-tickles and peek-a-boos, rigorously attempting to squeeze a laugh out of her. I've long since stopped apologizing and explaining and depending on the situation, I may or may not mention how often she does this to us, too. How we simply have a larger landscape to work with and clearly less at stake. We also, my husband and I, happen to also have the buffer of a good collection of already-moments when we were able to get her to laugh and so most of it feels like icing or a fine cocktail, without too much worry of how soon we can get it to happen again.

It's not that she's unpredictable. She is, in fact, very predictable when we reside in a place that feels safe and familiar, and we use this information by choosing our environments wisely. It's a rarity for us to place ourselves in situations where it isn't appropriate for Opal to be a toddler or where we don't at least have a getataway car idling in back, so to speak. We gather at places where Opal can bounce and trot, yodel and holler with little resistence. We go to Grammy and Granpy's, to parks and kid's museums where a panorama of tiny humans running wild is what's expected. These days, we prefer to invite people to our house than to strap her into a high chair at a restaurant, and if a restaurant is inevitable, we do our damnedest to choose a place with plenty background noise and the space for her to lead one of us in circles with her tiny hand like a pony on a short lead, while other dining parents offer nods and been-there smiles of approval.

There are times, though, when we inevitably need or want to bring Opal along to something that is not exactly intended or suited for a baby. Inside the home of His and Her Majesty of Shambhala would be glowing example. It's certainly doable, just much less comfortable than average. Feels a little like having a frenetic pet squirrel break free from its cage in mid-prayer during Catholic Mass. One is much more concerned with the possible—probable—destruction of the squirrel than with the sermon.

The story continued when the same petal-tossing welcomers were graciously invited to tea and rice with the Majesties. Aside from the Princess who sat in a beautiful state of calm on Her Majesty's lap, Opal was the only baby. We opted to stay on the outside of the sitting room where everyone, including Jesse, knelt and sipped and spoke quietly. Meanwhile, Opal took a grand interest in the wooden staircase and the thick clunk it inspired beneath her brand-new Stride-Rites as she hollered mo cheese!, referring to the snack I'd been intermittently using to bribe her to be still for a moment.

We were encouraged to join the others, which we did, briefly. Opal luckily spotted the Halpern boys who she made a game of delivering her B and a handful of napkins to. A joke was made about how she learned early to serve, but the laughter was reserved and whispery. Personally, I wasn't able to hear a word Rinpoche was saying as I kept an eye on the little lady who was toddling through a mine-field of cups filled with creamy black tea and plates sprinkled with the remaining dregs of rice.

I assumed I wasn't the only one having a difficult time concentrating in that moment, so I made the executive decision to corral my little squirrel after not-so-long and reside contentedly in the outer-rooms until it was time to go. But, truth-be-told, I was deeply pleased to have had yet another moment of showing up fully, boisterously, warmly, imperfectly, with the gorgeous snaggle-toothed toddler in the lead like Reveille.

Hair and Other Parental Renunciations

It was only a few months ago that Opal allowed me to cut her hair and I already look back longingly.

Granted, it was a quick, two-person, less-than-accurate job. She was splashing around in the bathtub with daddy when mommy swooped in, danced and briefly conversed with the Squirting Pishy and cross-eyed family of Good-Plastic Frogs before leaning over with the scissors and snip—snip—snip. I was out of there before either she or Jesse realized what had happened. It was such a fly-by-night affair that both Jesse and I were dying to see how it looked when she woke up in the morning.

It turned out fine. Better than fine, as a matter-of-fact. That kind of luck doesn't come around twice in a row and I knew it would behoove me to plan accordingly.

It is currently a very different story. Opal's hair is so long and shaggy that it snarls into mats and knots every time she wakes from a nap, as if her hair had been battling it out between her skull and the sheets. Truth be told, there is one such tangle at the very back of her head that is immune to any brush or comb, thick like rope and frayed at the end. In the time between its birth and when I finally choose to just lop it off, I attempt to fold it under the other hair, fluff the remaining tresses around it so as to detract from it's loud implication of un-keptness.

Who is she trying to fool? Whisper, whisper.

Opal is now able to see scissors coming from across the room, even from behind. Must be the metallic glint, I don't quite know. The moment I get within a few feet of her precious skull, she begins fiercely shaking her head like a wild thing, up-down, back-forth, as if a Nine Inch Nails tune had just busted through the speakers. And it doesn't help that the aversion to scissors accompanies a resent aversion to barrettes and bows and the like. The life of a barrette that mercifully offers the possibility of keeping her hair from her eyes is short lived. Either she pulls it out or her rumpus toddler ways leave it dangling impotently by a thread before plopping to the floor.

At least there is the option of the hat. Let us not forget the glory of the hat.

There you have it. Not that big of a deal, right? But for some reason, it drives me batty to have a child who strongly resembles the guitarist from an Eighties Hair Band. Yet, there is not much I can do about it, shy of holding her down against her will while perched in one of those barbershop swivel-seats beneath the heavy hands of an unfamiliar hair-stylist, thus instilling a life-long phobia of haircuts.

Get used to it, our pediatrician's nurse said, paraphrased, in the midst of providing reassurance around Opal's oft-selective eating habits.

This is only the beginning. She then handed us a convenient list of what we can and cannot control around the dinner table (You can control what you feed your child, the time, the mood, etc. You cannot control what he eats, what he likes, his weight.) Bless that little list. As obvious as it may seem, it is a tride-and-true reminder of where things often go astray, where the tightness threatens to seep in: attempting to control the uncontrollable.

I find myself whipping up these kinds of lists all over the place, like helpful graffiti penned onto situations, my baby, myself.

And I am, at least temporarily I would say, a better mom for it.

An Homage to Bosque.

Grammy, Grampy, Loo-loo, Alla!

This is the whole-hearted baby-tune that spills over from the backseat as we make our way into Boulder to see Grammy, Grampy, Aunt Alex and Lucy the dog. Opal is almost distracted enough by her anticipation to not mind the full-face of sunshine that blasts through the back window, an inevitability during the mid-day, due-north drive. Uncle David will probably be there also, an Opal-adored fixture in the Bosque Court household, but the specific brand of awe that is reserved for him is typically stored up in order to be savored in person.

In short, Opal loves going to grammy and grampy's house.

They have their own perfectly lovely little routine over there and, even better, they have all their own stuff. Opal has her own special cupboard for food, snacks, bowls, spoons, bibs and the like. She even has her own stroller in the garage! All we need to pack for our visits is B the bunny and Milk. Two items. Not even enough to constitute writing up a list. Heaven.

Grammy has a pack-n-play permanently installed at the foot of her bed, draped with thick velour blankets, like a little room with Victorian curtains. It houses Opal's Donkey, who is B's nearly identical alter-ego, sans tail and pointy ears, and who keeps residence full time at Grammy's.

She calls him Donkey, dockee. The nickname "D" had already been taken by Uncle David.

Grammy has her own noise machine, baby monitor and continuously growing cascade of board-books, which are read to Opal in grammy's pillowy bed. I remember as a little girl how luxurious it was to take naps at my grandparents' house— the rich, velvety blanket that was a working comforter on my Grandma Herman's bed. How it had a fruity, soapy smell when I buried my face into it and breathed hot, damp air. The house was always a little cool, so I would tuck the blanket tightly beneath my chin, envelope my curled-up body without leaving a single gap vulnerable to the open air. Grandma's bedroom was always so clean and clutter-free, as I remember it. It felt so grown-up to be in there. It was where adults would nap, I used to think. There and in the recliner in front of the T.V.

On the ground floor of Bosque Ct., much of the grown-up decor in grampy's main living space —grammy and grampy live together—has either been altered, removed or replaced with baby-in-mind. The fabulous, puzzle-piece coffee tables (with extra-sharp corners) are removed before Opal arrives and a couch-cushion buffer is assembled around the gorgeous gem and rock collection at the base of the fireplace. There are boxes and baskets of toys abound, seeming to stay tidily put away in their respective bins until Opal shows up again to professionally dismantle them all.

The Bosque Ct. gang goes for a walk as often as weather permits. Lucy the dog is a treasured bit of entertainment for the stroll and Opal anticipates their outings from the moment she enters the front door. Eash! Eash! Lou-Lou! As she attempts to scale the wall in order to reach one of the many leashes that dangle from the coat-hooks in the front hall. One of them is spring loaded and when she yanks on it, it lengthens then springs like a slingshot against the wall.

Uh-oh, she says. No attempt at hiding a slight grin that boasts her single, perfect-sidways top tooth.

Opal goes to grammy and grampy's at least one afternoon a week. She has for many months now, since long before she could crawl. I drop her off just before her afternoon nap time and daddy picks her up after work, which allows me a splendid chunk of day to fill with errands and appointments and the occasional yoga class. Playing my cards more mindfully could even get me an entire afternoon off—imagine!— though writing these words is a plain reminder that I am hardly ever that organized.

Grammy is queen-master of thinking up precious little games and granddaughter play-scenarios. She patiently obliges as Opal buries her in one blanket after another (nada blankie!) or stacks hat after hat atop her head, an expression of pure mirth draped across both their faces. At the conclusion of each visit, grammy is left brewing another idea (nada idea!) of something that needs to be purchased to fully support Opal's current imaginary themes or basis for baby-amusement. We knew from the beginning that she would be one of those grammies who'd not only take part in the most ornate and exquisite of tea parties, she would be one of the key organizers.

Auntie Alex has the energy of a vivacious cattle dog as she chases Opal through the space, thus inspiring baby-squeals and continuous looks-over-the-baby-shoulder to make sure she has no intentions of stopping the game. Opal romps and frolics in the airstream of Alex's zest. She scampers to show Alex her newest amusement, knowing that it will be fully embraced, as if they are singing along to the very same ditty.

As for grampy, the affection hasn't wavered from the very first night we brought Opal home from the hospital. That night, he called her such a sweeeet girl as he fit her entire body in his forearm and rocked her to sleep. A more recent image that comes to mind depicting grampy's gentle demeanor is when he returned from waking her up from a nap one afternoon with her snuggled tight to him, her little head nuzzled into the nape of his neck. So cozy.

And as I mentioned before, Uncle D is a total marvel to her. Opal meets him and his friends with a mixture of tentativeness and glee, unable quite to decide which feeling to commit to from one moment to the next. David never fails to give her generous amounts of attention before scurrying back up to his bedroom.

An afternoon at Bosque is the equivalent of an afternoon at the baby-spa; Opal stews inside a well-lit tank of steady appreciation, adoration, delight. She comes home looking like a cat who spent the better part of the day basking in the sun, having slipped into contented snores the moment daddy tucked her in the carseat to head home.

Moments That Simultaneously Delight and Infuriate. #2

There is a house across the road and down the way that has a massive landscape-fountain in the backyard.

Opal and I walk passed it almost every day; it's part of our morning ritual. Even on days we want to head the opposite direction, we still casually swing by the fountain first as if we just happened to be in the neighborhood.

Wadoo wadoo wadoo Opal chants as we make our way there. Passed the house that, last summer, had raspberry branches hanging well over the fence and onto the sidewalk. Passed the little yippy dog that's the color of an unwashed gym-shirt. Passed the crayon-yellow Volkswagen Bug that we adjust our hats in the reflection of.

It's a lovely fountain, to be sure. So captivating it's able to distract Opal long enough to clip her fingernails. I envision us making tracks in that direction for many months to come.

~~~

Yesterday we were climbing into the car, which I had parked it on the street. It was raining—a Pacific-Northwest kind of day—and there were tiny rivers rushing down the sides of the street between the cars and the curb. Opal's car seat is on the passenger side and as I fumbled to unlock the door, she noticed the water-show and made her arms and legs rigid so I couldn't get her through the car door without a strategy. Once in her car-seat, she refused to sit down so she could continue to look over the side and out the door to the water that coursed down below.

Wadoo! Wadoo! She pleaded, meaning for the love all all that's good in my tiny baby-world, I want to look at the wadoo!

Tell me, how could I argue this? The comforting gurgling noise of the babbling street-brook, brimming with swirling strains of iridescent motor oil, suddenly seemed pretty damn appealing to me, too. Not to mention the fact that water was actually falling directly out of the sky and on to mommy's head! From behind a baby-lens, who in their right-mind would dare to suggest that this panorama should ever shift?

And yet, forward-movement needed to intervene once again.

Momma was getting soaked and we still had to stop by the post office before meeting some friends in Boulder for dinner. Even after spending ample time observing, Opal met the inevitable scene-change with great resistance. Thankfully the car was stocked with smiley-faced stickers, used shamelessly as bribery for this very thing, which were accompanied by a rousing rendition of Olde MacDonald (ducks!) to help us get back on the road.

The Fox and the Epic Bedtime.

The word Manipulation has really gotten a bad rap. One thinks of trickery, deceptive planning and Madoff-type scheming. Of winners and of losers.

But the kind of manipulation a toddler brings to the table deserves a word bearing an entirely different connotation: experimental, boundary-testing, honest and incredibly curious. At this age, the last thing Opal is doing is scheming and devising well-laid plans ahead of time to put one over on her parents.

From her eyes as I see it, things may be going along as usual until it occurs to her wait—what if I can make them go differently? Suddenly a new notion visits—like a beckoning insect—questioning just how much power she could possibly exude over a circumstance.

Diapering has been an on-again off-again struggle for the last many months. She squiggles, she squirms, she twists and she turns (sorry, got caught up in the cadence there). Maybe it's simply a matter of finding the perfect thing to amuse her. Though, by the 5th unsuccessful thing offered— especially when there is somewhere we need to be—one gets pretty weary with the whole song and dance. We've tried time outs (read: turning my attention away for one solid minute), redirection (no dice) and, as a last resort, down-right holding her still until the diaper gets fastened (a technique I am hardly a fan of). What winds up happening is she eventually tires out, quits the fight and we get it done.

As a 15-month old, a true-blue toddler, she woke up one morning with the long-distance endurance of a penguin, to practice and execute her impressive skills of stubbornness. This is the same stubbornness, but of a slightly different brand, that has gotten her this far in life. It's carried her from a furry sac of water glued to the ground by gravity to a mobile, inquisitive, communicating garden-gnome miniature of a lady. And in the span of just over a year! Astounding! Each time I find myself rubbing the lamp in hopes of a baby with less gumption, I consider both side of this coin and am forced to withdrawal any hasty such wishes.

Manipulation is the half-brother to stubbornness, two muscles that work to achieve one action. And there are times she plays both like two-hands-at-the-piano while mama stands by, gobsmacked. Lately I feel about as ineffective in my efforts to slice through it as a single twig inserted into a rodeo pen might be.

One specific example: The Bedtime Routine.

On this particular night in mention, the diapering was an incredible challenge. Opal absolutely gave it her best game. On the table, she arched her back, twisted to her belly, kicked, slapped and cried. I occupied her with toys, to no avail. I distracted her with songs and rhymes and games, to no avail. I told her "no" in a deep, calm, meaning-business tone. No response. I ignored her for a minute until she calmed down, blocking the sides of the changing table to keep her from falling off, which revved her even further. Ten full minutes had passed and we still had a naked, undiapered baby on our hands.

So I brought her to the floor, afraid she was going to hurt herself, knock her head on the wooden edges of the table from all this wrestling, or fall flat on her face. Also, I thought, perhaps a new environment would help. I was grossly mistaken. She not only was able to continue resisting to the degree she had been, she could now get up and run away, thus instigating a short-lived game of cat-and-mouse. Again, I tried turning my back and ignoring her for a minute—the baby-version of time out—but what I found once I turned back around was both hilarious and maddening.

Opal had taken her diaper and her pajamas across the room, piled them in a tiny heap in the corner and had perched her doll-baby little naked body atop the mound like a mini-version of man-on-the-hill. She was so precious, almost incandescent where she sat beneath the lamp, that I was dumbstruck. And having a hard time not shrieking with pleasure.

I was also hit with the understanding of just what it was I was dealing with in the form of a bucket-pour to the face.

The ridiculous diaper saga finally ended, when, after 30 minutes had passed, we were both beginning to tire of the vaudevillian spectacle, she in body and I in mind. I put her back on the changing table and held her in place while I changed her, as quickly and no-big-deal as possible. Bracing her is the last thing I want to do. Not to mention the fact that she is at times so strong, I'm concerned that holding her still, even for a moment, will leave bruises! Oye.

With the diaper done, we moved to the rocking chair to read her stories. Phase two of the toddler-bedtime and all that it brings. Gone are the days when it's as simple as Daddy and Mommy grabbing a few books and plopping down on the rocker with the sweet little Squisher in our lap.

That specific night I grabbed the doggie book and she wanted the birdie book. I grabbed the birdie book and she wanted the Dora book. We were contentedly reading the Dora book when Opal decided she wanted to read the book backwards once we finished reading it forwards. She squiggled, squirmed and pointed at a fuzz located on the floor across the room announcing dirty! dirty! until it was safely placed in the trash.

After a clunky, hardly-linear reading session, we shut off the light and sang a song in the almost-dark, but for the light of her froggy (used-to-be-fishy) nightlight.

It went like this:

"Twinkle Twinkle Little Star"...Milk! She yelled and jetted her eyes around the room.

Milk is gone, honey. I say

"How I wonder what you are"...Water! She squirmed.

Water is all gone, honey.

"Up above the world so high"...B! Golla! Baby! Blickie (Blankie)! She was grasping from her little mental baby-list.

You've got your B, honey. And the rest are waiting for you in your bed. I sat her gently into her crib.

"Like a diamond in the sky"...Meow meow! Dada! She kicked off the blanket.

Daddy and kitty are out in the living room. Say night night. I stretched down to give her a kiss on her forehead.

And then came the piece de resistance. She grabbed my arm, earnest as a wide-eyed platypus, and said Dippy (diaper), Mama. Poo-poo!

Wow. There was no poo-poo in the dippy, to be sure. (And checking the next morning deemed that assessment to be accurate.) An impressively cunning Doodlebug was pulling out all the stops.

I continued Twinkle Twinkle as I crept out the door, 41 minutes after we first entered, a tsunami of baby-wailing in my wake. Feeling not so much tarred-and-feathered as dramatically aware of the need to improve my own mama-game—weights? Sudoku?— to be able to keep up with my little Fox.

A Weekend Away.

For our 4-year wedding anniversary last fall, my husband—ever astute he is—offered to ship me away for a weekend while he stayed home with the babe.

"I thought you could go visit Lisa in Vancouver," were the specific words that sprung from his lips like a flock of Warblers. Lisa—a dear friend and one of my first acquaintances upon moving to Boulder as well as the lady who introduced Jesse and I—is indeed delightful company, a master conversationalist, instigator of unconventional situations and someone who is quite easy to relax with. The perfect concierge for my first weekend away.

Let's be clear. When I say first weekend away, I mean first overnight away. I mean first longer-than-a-half-day chunk away. And here we were, going big and bold, with 4-days and 3-nights elsewhere.

In Canada.

~~

The Before.

A few days prior to departure, I drew up a meticulous schedule for Jesse, complete with a photograph and font variations. I was fixated with having every piece of laundry be clean and folded before I left and strategically laid out a handful of outfits. By the time Wednesday, the day before I left, rolled around, I was a steel-wool tangle of nerves disguised as how-do-I-get-all-these-blasted-ducks-in-a-row?!

"Honey, this is all helpful but we'll be just fine, you know." Jesse said over the phone. I told him I knew, know, that he is the most competent person on the planet, that Opal adores her daddy and these preparations were intended to help him to be able to relax more and enjoy his time with her once I left. But we both knew, and there was no need to admit, that the copious notes and 'helpful hints' (shield her in a smock and hat before mealtime lest you plan for a bath directly to follow, keep the humidifier dial at six o'clock...) were indeed to abate my own anxieties.

The night before my departure, Opal and I experienced simultaneous stomach issues. My insides felt like a questionable wiring job. Her's exploded with sandy diarrhea, filling her pant leg and socks like a cheap sausage and with a stench so intense that it stayed in her skin after a bath, skunked her, as Jesse said. She had another bout during the night, effectively skunking her room, requiring her to stay home from daycare that day and for daddy to stay home from work.

When I gave her a hug good-bye on Thursday, leaving curiously before her morning nap, she was wearing her happy-hour robe and headlamp hat. A decapitated doggie sticker stuck sideways to her lapel. She said “Bye Mama” and then fell to the floor, kicking and twisting in her p.j.’s. But by the time I pulled away, she and daddy were waving amiably through the front window.

~~

At the airport.

In the beginning, I couldn’t help myself from sharing the news with anyone who would listen— the bearded guy on the bus, the lady with Nefertiti eye make up who shined my shoes. But it didn't take long to realize this state of travel-anonymity was a rare feast. The rushing masses of wheelie-luggage, the oblivious cell-phone gabbers and tiny self-consumed family systems, all ignoring the periphery to make their way eagerly to Point B. Such mindlessness and speed has been cause for irritation in the past, sparks for questioning-humanity conversations and the like. But for that first day alone, the airport-sea of chaos and extreme sensory stimulation offered the merciful potential of full consumption. A diluting-rinse for all the cramped-up life details in my brain.

In no time, I found myself relishing the booming voices from the overhead speakers, the breeze from zipping-by motor carts that were laden with wheelchairs (on your left, ma’am!) and finally, the roar of the airplane engine, going, going, going, like seamless hurricane winds against the side of the plane. I sat quietly by the window as the ground backed away and pulled a cotton cloak to its chin. I allowed my mind to go elastic.

An example of the sweeping ramblings taken straight from what was written in my journal on the plane:

“—Eyes open: a comfortable wash. Eyes closed: unexpected morbid thoughts of getting lost in space and never returning to my husband and daughter. Eyes snap open again out of reflex and turn to look out the window. The vision of pulling away from the ground, as if it were avoiding an embrace, is mesmerizing. Further and further it goes, no explanations, no goodbyes. Timid, complex as an edgeless quilt, each snow-encrusted square a mis-told history all it’s own. One square is an irrigation circle like a wall-clock with no numbers, no bold-faced minute hand, simply the barely-visible halted strike of a single sprinkler, an etched slice into the white pie. Another square is a minimalistic canvas with a slate-grey river veining through, reflective like pieced-together shards of mirror. Another is a tiny country neighborhood decipherable from a distance only as a poorly distributed pinch of seasoning (black pepper). Another boasts meticulous garden plots and resembles factory-made gingham..."

The abstract details were surprisingly comforting.

I had one of Opal’s burp rags tucked into the pocket of the seat in front of me as a conduit for some essential oils that are supposed to ward off contagious airplane demons. The pink posy pattern shuddered like a flag in a breeze of unknown origin.

I shared the row (an empty space in-between) with a wiry-haired, middle-aged woman with transparent eyes who went straight from deep head-bob sleeping to feverishly underling passages in her book “My Grandfather’s Blessings,” by Naomi Remen.

“I study blessings,” she said when she caught me eyeing the cover. Neither forthcoming nor inviting.

A little later I inquired about where she was headed (Okinawa, Japan) and, after many hours of speaking barely a word, felt compelled to let her in on the spiel. Anniversary. First time away overnight. It will be so great for them, and so on. It didn't take long for me to realize that I was telling her out of courtesy, obligation—to a stranger?— and the words came tumbling out in automation. I wanted to shove it back under my coat, not be so quick to hand it over, and re-affix my stare on the wing and the sky that somehow held it in place.

(*Author's note: Who was it that said the definition of a boring person is someone who says everything, omits nothing. I believe it was Kafka, though I can’t seem to find the original quote anywhere.)

“Good for you,” said the lady, only partially friendly. She then closed her book, inserting her finger to keep the place, and shared that she has, in fact, been visiting the same friend for one weekend every year for the passed 30 years. She currently has two sons and four grandchildren. “It’s life-giving,” she said.

I realized my book was wide open and that the photo of Opal that I was using as a bookmark was lying on my lap in plain view, so I offered it to her.

“Adorable,” the lady said, and handed it back after barely a glance. “But try not to stare at it too much.”

~~

The Actual Weekend.

The three nights and two full days spent in Vancouver were delicious. Unique Lisa-inapired conversations were enjoyed all over the map: with bed-head and faces in tea steam until late in the morning, with another friend and a bottle of afternoon Chardonnay at a cafe by the coast as miniature ships inched their way along the horizon (the breathtaking view not at all distracting from our boisterous storytelling) and late enough into the evening with Lisa's sweet husband until nearly all of us sunk into slumber as we faced one-another in a circle of chairs. (Lisa: “Would it be wrong of me to wish for a troop of gnomes to come and brush my teeth for me?”)

There was an impressive tour through Vancouver, as guided by Lisa and her lovely friend Raena, from inside the tomato-red Mercedes they dubbed “Betty.” The taxi-boat ride to-and-fro just as the sun clawed its way through the dense clouds and inspired every Vancouver-local we came in contact with to comment on what a beautiful day it was! The next day we wandered through ancient forest— a spiraling ecosystem thriving as they do when untouched by human hands— and had Betty transport us to continue our wandering in Chinatown after an abundant feast of dim sum.

Throughout the weekend, I kept in good contact with Jesse, talking once or twice a day and emailing as well. He was so kind to send photos of he and Opal playing in her first fort, Opal in the outfit he picked out on his own (not bad!), he and Opal wearing underwear on their heads. The reports were sparkling. She was having a ball with family that’d come in from out of town. She and daddy were enjoying their time together. She was asking for mama, but easily calmed or re-directed. But by Saturday, she wanted to be held all the time, Jesse said, not even so much as to be set down next to him while he made breakfast.

I thought of her constantly, not so much yearning for her as having fond, simple mama-thoughts. There was a continuous stream of things I imagined showing her when she was a little older as well as thoughts of how she’d describe the things we passed in her perfect little toddler-diction. It wasn’t until Saturday night—I was to leave on Sunday morning—when I was socked by a longing as strong as any drug. I hadn’t spoken to Jesse since that morning and wouldn’t reach him again until Sunday morning when I got to Seattle. I was up for much of the night feeling as if my throat had closed, dreaming of her and waking to what I thought was her tiny voice through the monitor. What amazing things the mind and body can do! It was as if my missing her— and more importantly, feeling as if she was suddenly missing me, had the power to change the weather.

Once I got to Seattle, I breathlessly called Jesse to be informed that, in fact, Opal was doing just fine. No problems. Can’t wait to see you soon, honey. Immediately my appetite returned and my heart rate clicked into a moderate tempo.

~~

The Return.

The worst part was the 3-hour layover in Seattle. No movement towards home. Any other day, those 3 hours to myself would have been an extravagant wedge of space. I wont lie to you, I didn’t hold back when it came to hot chocolate and chair massage, but if I’d had a chance to hop on a plane to get me home earlier, you bet your britches I’d have been the first in line.

I was giddy and fluttering as I pulled into the driveway, all gawky with tangled limbs. When I entered the house—a house that, incidentally, I adore coming home to—daddy was holding Opal in his arms. His grin was much more vigorous than hers. As I described later to my mother-in-law, I had to use every ounce of restraint not to linebacker her face-first into the carpeting. Opal’s veneer expressed that she was basically unaffected, though there was clearly more going on underneath. She gave me a quick hug, scurried over to dump her basket of finger puppets unceremoniously in a heap on the floor and holler for her B.

Since then, for the accuracy of our records, Opal has been glued to my side and slightly fussy at times for the better part of the week. She had also been experiencing sustained and major meltdowns every time I leave her for a nap. But as I finish this lengthy entry, it has been one week exactly and, overall, she is doing just dandy. We made an audacious move and it was a booming success. (Thanks, Daddy! xo.)

As it turns out, daddy is the one who’s gone this weekend and Opal's been asking for him, calling him on her fake phone and standing by the front window, anticipating his headlights. I can only imagine how she’d like to lasso and hog-tie the both of us to our living room couch as this point, bless her heart. And maybe we'll let her.