Loving is the thing

Nearly everything about this day was perfection: oatmeal topped with blueberries and almonds in an unhurried morning, a day spent with some of my favorite classes, insightful and rich discussions of a work of literature I deeply love but infused with laughter and a willingness to not take ourselves too seriously all the time, an afternoon enjoying wine and conversation with a couple of my favorite people, an early-evening run in the sunshine. Oh, the sunshine. I am a Pacific Northwesterner (after living here for my entire adult life, after living in our little house near the shore of Puget Sound longer than I've lived in any other house, ever, I've decided I get to say that) and I love the rain, I do, but this winter has been exceptionally long and dark and my soul craves the sun. Whenever the clouds break long enough to let the light through, I just want to be outside, breathing and moving. Yesterday afternoon I laced up my running shoes and hit the streets, and shortly into my second mile the sky opened up. The rain pounded, soaking my shirt, and I ran with water dripping into my eyes and off my face, but I could see sunshine over the rooftops not far away. A sunshower. I smiled while I ran, because while I resist beginning a run in the rain, I secretly love nothing better than being caught in a downpour when there's no other choice but to just keep going.

These small moments are everything to me right now.

It has been a dark winter and an even darker spring. My school community is grieving the loss of two students and a staff member, all beloved in different ways. One of my best high school teachers once told me a long time ago that grief is a messy trickster and doesn't respect boundaries, and in the last few weeks that trickster has shown its face and made a terrible, terrible mess.

But in the midst of that mess, there is also this: the exquisite artistry of our ordinary lives. Sinking into a steaming bath with a book after my run. My children in their most unselfconscious moments: curled up on the living room recliner with a book, or constructing something with Legos or Tinker Toys or Construx. A text from my husband, wondering if brownies and non-dairy coconut milk ice cream sound good tonight. The clouds come, the rain returns, and we move comfortably around each other in the kitchen. I'm wearing pajama pants before dinner. My husband beats an egg, stirs it into the batter. Our children grumble and shove at each other, battling for equal space on the couch in the family room while they watch a movie. My son changes into pajamas, tossing his torn jeans on the floor of his bedroom -- what in the world happened there, I ask, pointing. What started as a small rip at the knee has become a large rectangle of torn denim, flapping away from his shin. Oh, I don't know, it just ripped, he says.

He runs over to kiss my cheek, sloppily, but then he's gone again.

My daughter and I come to a head: she overreacts to something and I snap at her, another overreaction. I imagine us in a mirror. I breathe. I'm sorry, I say. I didn't need to say it like that. And she moves into my embrace. She is so tall that I can barely rest my chin on her head.

Some days I feel so acutely that this is where my heart begins and ends. I want to live in each moment forever; I feel a small, tightening panic at the passing of time. I think about how new mothers are encouraged to train their babies to sleep away from the comfort of their breasts, and how glad I am, all these years later, that I nursed my own well into toddlerhood. I will never, ever regret falling asleep with my babies snuggled against my skin, even as I worried that we'd never sleep again. I wouldn't wish them backwards, wouldn't wish them back to babyhood, but dwelling in those moments and trying to capture them--knowing that I couldn't stay in them forever--has been the most joyous work of my life.

Tomorrow is promised to none of us. I am so aware of that right now. I also plan and fret with the best and most neurotic of humans, but at the same time I believe, more than anything, in staying present. In breathing this breath, right now. In holding my family, right now, tonight. In loving the ordinary moment, in staying present in it.

In loving. Really, that's it. That's the thing.

When Suzannah was small, a toddler, I taught her our code: three little squeezes of the hand means I. Love. You. Always. A message we could share in a crowd, hustling through a grocery store, a signal, a softness when we struggled through a tough afternoon. We could say everything without having to say anything. Later, I passed it on to Isaac as well. In the mornings, when I drop them off at school, I reach back for their hands. They are scrambling for their backpacks, ready to wave to their friends, ready to run away from me and into a day that is theirs, but first, every single morning, there is this: the moment when our hands connect over the seat. I reach back. Their fingers find mine. And every morning, this is our last touch: I. Love. You.

Spring Break 2017

We woke up early on Saturday morning; our goal was to be out the door by 5:45 a.m. We had a shuttle to catch to the airport and an early-morning flight to Omaha, followed by a drive to Sioux City, Iowa. We've been looking forward to this trip for months, and in the last couple of weeks I have so desperately just wanted to get out of town. I deeply love my home and I'm normally pretty happy with "staycations," as there are so many wonderful ways to fill our days here. But sometimes you need a break from your environment to clear your head, and this break, for me, couldn't have been better timed.

Although it didn't feel that way at 6:30 in the morning as we checked into our flight and my son threw up his entire breakfast all over the floor in front of the airline kiosk. Or when he threw up again just as we were pushing our carry-ons through security.

Shit.

Here is something we've learned: our son doesn't do well with early-morning travel. Suzannah insisted on setting her own alarm clock for some absurd middle-of-the-night time, as if she ever even needs one. She was up and dressed and tapping her foot impatiently while the rest of us fumbled around trying to load everything into the car without forgetting anything. Isaac doesn't wake up that way; it's always best to make sure he has enough sleep to wake up on his own. Unfortunately, Saturday morning's departure time didn't make that possible. So there was that, and there was the shuttle ride to the airport (which made me feel a little queasy too; I'm afraid my son inherited my sensitive stomach).

The same thing happened last year when Matt flew to Minneapolis alone with the kids. I'd gone the day before for IB training, and he followed the next morning. He knew I'd be anxious about them getting to the airport on time and probably worrying about that as I sat in my workshop, and he was right, so he texted cheerfully when they made it through security with plenty of time to spare. What he chose not to share at that point was that our son had barfed all over the food court. And then again on the plane. And then again as he got off the plane. He was perfectly fine after that.

(I should say that Matt handled it really well, and I was sorry I wasn't there to help.)

So I didn't exactly panic when my son threw up, partly because I remembered last year and partly because when you're at the airport and your son is barfing everywhere and you are suddenly those people that require someone to appear with a yellow sign to block off the area and a mop and you have a child who has just barfed all over his pullover, you don't exactly have time to panic. Someone has to take the child to clean up, and someone has to hustle the other child and all of the luggage over to the bag drop. Did I mention I hadn't had any coffee yet?

When Matt led our son out of the bathroom, his pullover damp and only slightly smelly, I tried to stay optimistic. Isaac insisted he felt much, much better. The lines at security weren't terrible and we made it to the front in a few minutes. And then it started again. This time Matt grabbed a nearby trash can (which I suspect might have actually been a recycling container) and most of it went in there, but not all of it, so an irritated TSA agent started barking: "Folks, do not step over here! Watch it! Watch where you're walking!" Matt and I mumbled our apologies and hustled our kids through.

Isaac insisted, once again, that he felt much better. I still hadn't had coffee and it didn't sound particularly good, but neither did the headache I was sure would follow. So while Matt took Isaac to clean up again, I bought a 12-oz. drip and managed to sip about half of it before we got on the plane.

Right away we asked for extra airsick bags (Matt learned very unfortunately last year that you are no longer guaranteed to find them in the pocket on the back of the seats).

"We've got a kiddo with an anxious tummy," we said.

The flight attendants were incredibly kind. One of them said right away, "Oh, this happens all the time! Sometimes these little ones have a really rough time so early in the morning!" Another one confessed that her son always got sick on the plane. They offered to bring ginger ale right away, and they slipped us a few bags.

Isaac insisted he was fine.

Until the plane started to move. Then he said, "I have to go to the bathroom!" and Matt and I looked at each other with real panic this time. What Isaac meant, though, was that he had to puke again, and Matt grabbed frantically for a bag while Isaac pressed his lips together and his eyes filled with tears. Matt managed to hold open the bag in time, but just barely.

After that, Isaac insisted he was fine.

When the beverage cart came through, he insisted he was thirsty. We let him have some ginger ale. He barfed again. We let him have more ginger ale. He barfed again.

This happened four times, I think. But oddly enough, my memory of the flight isn't terrible. In between these pitiful heavings, he watched a movie with his sister and seemed more or less content. We were seated in the back of the plane, where we could discreetly dispose of the bags in the bathroom. We were also surrounded by a couple of understanding moms who kept catching my eye and saying, "Oh, I've been there. Would you like a hand wipe? Are you okay?" It reminded me of the time we flew with Suzannah when she was about 18 months old, and she had a cold, and the flight was delayed a couple of hours, and she was slightly too old to just nurse to sleep on my lap (I tried) but not old enough to be interested in a movie. A dude sitting in front of us rolled his eyes as soon as he saw us get on the plane with a toddler, but the woman sitting behind me put her hand on my shoulder and said, "We have so been there. Whatever your girl does, it's fine. And we're here to help if you need anything!" I literally teared up, and I vowed to become that kind of person on a plane for the rest of my life. I have probably unnerved young parents by my eager offers of help ("Oh, can I grab that for you? Can I hold this? It's okay! I remember what it's like!").

By the end of the flight, Isaac seemed pretty bouncy. He was starting to annoy his sister. He grinned and flashed me a thumbs-up.

I relaxed. We got off the plane, picked up our rental car, and headed downtown to find lunch. We parked near Omaha's Old Market, which I remembered from our last visit eight years ago. This time I was not newly pregnant and thought I could really use a glass of wine with lunch, all things considered, and Matt clearly felt the same, so we headed for a nearby brewery that looked promising.

Isaac threw up on the sidewalk.

He insisted he was fine. We nervously carried a few bags into Upstream Brewery, where we were seated blessedly quickly. Isaac burst into tears when we told him we did not think it was wise for him to eat a cheeseburger.

"But I'm hungry," he wept.

He finally agreed to eat the toast that came with my salad (possibly the best salad I've ever had, by the way, for those of you who ever have reason to travel to Omaha--it was this beautiful creation of butternut squash, beets, quinoa, kale, a tiny amount of feta, and a dreamy lemon dressing. Matt's falafel was also delicious, and Suzannah proclaimed the chicken strips "awesome!" I can't believe any of us had any appetite, but we tired travelers feasted happily). I'd stashed the little complimentary cinnamon biscuits from the flight in my purse, and Isaac grumpily ate those as well. We hit the road for Sioux City, about 90 miles away, and he fell asleep immediately. Matt and I relaxed.

Until Isaac woke up and barfed again. We'd placed a plastic bag in the back with him, but he was groggy and disoriented and didn't quite make it.

We were pretty much in the middle of nowhere at that point. I reached back and used the last of my wet wipes to scrub at the seat. It wasn't enough.

"We need to find a gas station or something," I said to Matt.

We saw a sign for gas, food, and groceries and pulled off the interstate. We headed for what we thought must be a town, and apparently it used to be. The building with the sign for gas, food, and groceries was boarded up, its siding weatherbeaten. Weeds obscured the lot. The houses nearby looked the same, faded, with boarded windows. Others had porches piled high with junk: bikes, toys, rusted appliances.

A couple of kids played in one yard, kicking a ball around. As we drove slowly by, they stopped and stared. They seemed hostile and incurious.

We noticed American flags painted onto random pieces of wood, propped against the houses. And we saw confederate flags, actual flags hanging from flag poles.

"Let's get the hell out of here," I said to Matt. He nodded.

The next time we pulled off at a real gas station, the kind that has a Subway attached to it. Inside I grabbed paper towels, Dawn dish detergent, two giant bottles of water, and more wet wipes.

"Can I help you find somethin', Hon?" the cashier asked.

"Um...maybe plastic bags?" I said. "I've got a carsick kiddo..."

"Oh, here. I can just give you some! Don't buy any!" She reached behind the counter and produced a handful of plastic sacks. "I know how it goes."

"Thank you," I said, grateful. I went back outside, where Matt had unloaded the kids and the carseat. While he took Isaac to the bathroom, I got to work scrubbing.

"Hey! Are you the lady with the sick kid?"

I turned to see a woman crossing the parking lot.

"Yeah," I admitted.

"I heard you inside. Take these. My nephew always gets carsick, so I've learned to keep a stash in my car." She handed me a blue plastic bag held open with a wide plastic rim. "They can just puke in that, see."

"Thank you!" I called, but she was already waving over her shoulder.

After we'd checked into our hotel in Sioux City, I sent Matt and Suzannah to Dave and Tia's house and hunkered down in our room with Isaac. My mother-in-law was planning on serving a beautiful dinner, but after our day I couldn't expect Isaac to eat, much less behave. And he was so tired. Matt picked up some take-out and left the two of us snuggled in for the night. And honestly, it was lovely, that time with my little boy. He truly seemed to feel better, only spent. So he didn't eat, but we watched TV together, and I read the book I'd begun on the airplane, and we stretched out and relaxed. I suppose those quiet hours were the start of our real vacation.

And it was wonderful. Some of my friends saw sunshine this week, or traveled to fabulous places. On Friday night, I was feeling a little jealous of those people. On Sunday afternoon, the feeling had passed. Our nephews were baptized on Sunday morning. Matt and I became godparents. We visited Dave and Tia's brewery, the first time I've seen it. We ate and drank and laughed together. My children drove each other crazy but fell hard for their little cousins. We swam for hours in the indoor/outdoor pool at our hotel. We ate really good food. We drank really good beer (obviously). We visited the Mid America Museum of Aviation and Transportation and the Sioux City Public Museum. My handsome husband turned 39 and we celebrated. Mostly, we just enjoyed being with our family, and because this happened in Iowa, there was really no point in stressing about anything in Washington. It was, in every sense of the word, a break. It was so good.

Our return trip was much smoother. No one had to wake up before they were ready; we didn't need to hit the road until 9:30. We returned the rental car at 11:30 and had time for a leisurely lunch at the airport (though nothing as lovely as that salad from Upstream Brewery). The flight wasn't full, so Matt sat with the kids and I had an entire row to myself. My flight anxiety is sky-high these days, so this small grace was something. When the beverage cart rolled by, I bought a glass of wine; later the flight attendant returned, saw my empty glass, and refilled it for free.

"Let's call this girls' night out," she said with a wink.

I read a book. The kids watched a movie. Matt dozed.

We descended through the clouds in the late afternoon. Even though the winter has bled too long into spring, even though I am desperate for sunshine, there is still absolutely nothing more beautiful than breaking through the clouds above Seattle. Puget Sound shimmered against the mountains. There was the Space Needle. There was West Seattle. I peered through the window, watched the cars moving along I-5. Home. I smiled. Home.

We still have a few days left of Spring Break. Today the kids and I went to see Beauty and the Beast, went out for lunch, and ran a few errands. Suzannah organized her bookshelves. I vacuumed, and then I cleaned the vacuum (oh, shut up). Isaac made his daddy a belated birthday card. Tomorrow Suzannah and I are getting haircuts and I will feel like a new woman. I'm rereading MacBeth because I am teaching it in my freshman class after break, and it's the most excited I've felt about teaching them all year. I feel as though it may be possible to breathe again.