Born in different time zones
Most everyone has strong feelings about the airport. There are people who love it and people who dread it. The airport is a place where time and space come alive in a way they never did in your physics book. "Here" and "not here", so real and joyful - or painful - illustrated by the effect of just seconds passing.. One... two... three... gone! One... two... three... here! Then there are the plane rides, eliminating whole chunks of the day or night by way of simple speed. You turn the dials on your watch as if it was all a game, as if minutes and hours were arbitrary. The airport will leave you feeling vulnerable, euphoric, destroyed, bored and most of all exhausted.
As I was dropping off my mother on Saturday I caught sight of a couple. They were standing close, she was crying. They weren't hugging, their body language looking a little hopeless... as if it was all no use anymore since in a few minutes the separation will have taken place. One... two... three... gone! I remembered immediately my first trip to the US in summer of 1999. I had gone to visit Lincoln, my new boyfriend, who I had just met five months before that. We had spent three weeks together that summer and had already discussed marriage. We were on the relationship fast track. The fastest track. But it was time to say goodbye for another four months. It was Chicago O'Hare. I was crying my eyes out. I could not stop. I am usually not a public cryer, but I was just completely overwhelmed. I did not want to leave. At the same time I knew this was something completely out of the ordinary. I was sad, but the reason I was crying was not the realization how yet again things were not going to work out or fear that I'd be forgotten. I was crying, because I had to separate from this perfect thing that had appeared in my life. It wasn't complicated, it wasn't confusing, it was not going to be a source of heartache, it was just good in every possible way. We were sad but determined. The airport provided the scenery for the moment we had to actually live the decision we had made. The countdown of remaining minutes emphasizing the timelessness of what we were feeling.
Now for me the airport is a constant reminder of the pain and joy we have since invited in our life. Always driving down the point of the limitations of time and space it exposes the love we have for each other. We visit it to see family and friends, we visit it to see them off. My children will know no other life than routinely climbing into planes and getting out of them. The drive to the airport is our personal pilgrimage. Together with all the other people we will fall apart in public, or sigh in joy and relief, a privilege in many ways.
Last Saturday, just like every other time, my mother and I drove to the airport. We stood in line, we dropped off the luggage. We had our coffee in the usual spot. And then we said goodbye, thinking, "I love you, here or not here.", suddenly feeling acutely every second and every inch. That last part, courtesy of The Airport.
Posted at 11:30 AM on November 30, 2009 | Comments (2)Sick (and tired)
I seem to forget from year to year how horrible early winter is. Well, it's denial is what it is. So much sickness! I am at the doctor every week for something. I try not to get worked up over it because it's normal, but then at night I start wondering where all the time went and why I'm so tired.
A doctor's visit with a small child is a nightmare. First you sit in the waiting room, then the nurse appears, a sign of hope: maybe this time it will be quick. But no, she takes you to the doctor's room, checks the wiggly kid's vitals and then smiles sweetly chirping "The doctor will be right with you!" as she locks you up for about twenty minutes in a tiny room, with a thousand non-child-proofed cabinets full of sterile medical supplies all in a toddler's height, as well as a super-fun trash can full of germed-on waste, of course with an unsecured lid - oh and also a swirly twirly little stool that can be spun around endlessly. All you childless people you have no idea, NO IDEA what form of torture this is. I have reached amazing new heights of aggravation and rage inside those rooms only to have to stifle the urge to scream repeatedly because outside that door is a swarm of health professionals and - gasp - other mothers, who will judge me, judge me immediately even though they themselves are ready to throw their wiggly toddlers out the window.
And then the doctor finally appears only to ask me all those same questions the nurse asked me and then floats away within minutes promising again that "the nurse will be with you in a minute"... At that point my child is a perfect mess of frustration and boredom, the ideal state to have his thighs jammed with needles. And then we get back into the car and drive all the way to the pharmacy where we wait yet again...
There are many things I could say about my job, but on some days I think the best way to describe it would be "Waiting for my kids to grow up." Because really it's what it is. I do all these things so that one day I don't have to do them anymore. The special days of fun and happiness and subsequent amazement and the wonder of it all are true and necessary... but those other "empty" days of waiting and more waiting and feeding medicine and keeping them from kiling themselves with their crazy stunts are what really counts. At least that's what I feel when find myself stepping outside of the moment and think what the heck am I doing? Trying to entertain an 18-month-old in a 10 x 10 foot cell with a wooden stick (tongue depressor google calls it) for thirty minutes straight?
I'm just keeping them alive until they can take care of themselves one day. Also, I write it down, so I have things to blackmail them with one day.
Posted at 11:43 PM on November 25, 2009 | Comments (4)Sunday
Tagged:
fall
afternoon
halloween
mess
who cares
buckets of candy
funny movie
(almost) all the people I love
home.
Posted at 03:00 PM on November 01, 2009