We Walk Among the Golden Aspen

 Dear Luca,

    I should have said,  I walk, you sleep among the golden aspen.

What a stunning day it was today, with the aspen showing off their bright yellows in the midst of the deep green pine trees.  You fussed for about 20 minutes, a little longer that usual, but it was clear that you were sleepy, so I knew it would be a matter of time. We walked up and down the road for about an hour and covered about 2 miles, which is our goal for Wednesdays.  It can be a busy road, even though it's off the beaten path, but to a one, the cars and vans and trucks all slow down when they see an old lady pushing a stroller, or pausing to sip some water. Most people wave, and I smile back, not taking my hands off the stroller, ever!

    I learned some more about you today, as you and I continue to get to know one another. As usual, you weren't happy to see me, but I know that has more to do with your knowing your mother is about to leave than any idea you have about me. But, as I said above, we embarked on our usual journey. You quieted down when you heard a jet roar past. You looked up to the sky, looked around, and started to close your eyes. I began singing in my incomparable voice:

I'm leaving on a jet plane.  

Don't know when I'll be back again.

Oh, girl, I hate to go...

 With apologies to John Denver, I couldn't remember much more of the song, so I would hum and sing the words and began to wonder about "jet plane." We never say "jet plane" anymore, because for most of us, that all there is when we travel. But at the time, there was also the possibility of leaving on a prop plane, or a turbo-prop plane, although neither of those terms would have fit into the melody of the song.

    Anyway. About what I learned today. When we came back home, your eyes were wide open, but I left you in your stroller, while I went to the bathroom. You were talking to yourself and quite happy for about 10 minutes, and then, as you began to get fussy, but before you started to cry, I unbuckled you and lifted you out. As usual, you were not happy, and your fussing turned to crying as I walked around the house with you. Then, sooner than I did last week, I put you on your tummy on the blanket, and your world changed. Even though the frog refused to sing this time (battery?), there were little colored disks chained together and a rather complicated book dealing with words and numbers in special categories, like clothing, for example. 

    And so it dawned on me! You don't want me to walk around with you, rubbing your back and trying to comfort you. You want some action. You want to try to crawl (almost!). You want to see things and touch things and interact with your world. Your dad came home early and brought you a toy that's a steering wheel and dashboard full of things you can punch to hear noise and music. You sat up and banged on everything while your dad and I talked about the coming visit of your Aunt Julie and your Aunt Catherine, his sisters, who should be here next week this time, especially to meet you, their nephew.

    My trip back down the canyon (I'm getting so much better at backing out of your driveway!) was peaceful and beautiful, as I held the images of your playing on that little blanket in my mind.

 

Working on Trust: The Way You Looked at Me

     In all, it was a Wednesday not like our other Wednesdays, except for our walk, and even that was not quite the same.

    But first a word about your mother, Eileen.  

    When I arrive at your house everything is ready for me to start my time with you. Your house is bright and sunny with deep reds and greens and orchids blooming in the windows. Right next to the stove, your mother has placed the french press, a bag of good Guatemalan coffee, and a cup.  She knows I like my coffee. 

Then, next to the kitchen sink, carefully laid out, is your bottle and formula, ready to be mixed.  Today, a blanket is spread in the living area by the wood stove, and several toys and a little book are on it. The singing green frog will come in handy in a little while. In other words, she makes me welcome.

    Before she leaves, we have time to talk about you and about your dad, my son, when he was growing up. Then, you wake up, take a look at me, and you know what's about to happen. I am here and that's not a good sign. That means she's going to leave. Not a good sign at all. You make it known that you do not approve, especially since no one has bothered to ask you if this arrangement is okay with you.

    Your mom buckles you into your stroller, you are crying, and I motion for her to leave as I get a bottle ready for you and we venture out on the road in the magic stroller. But the usual pattern of fussing, looking around, dozing off, doesn't happen today. You are not happy for most of our two mile walk, although you take your bottle and you do look around at the pine trees and aspen, and you look to the sky when a plane flies by.  Just as we are getting back home, after having been out for an hour, you do fall asleep as it begins to rain. But my getting the stroller back in the house jostles you awake.

    I offer you another bottle, which you take, so it's clear you're hungry. And fussy. I unbuckle you and lift you from your stroller. We walk through your house. We look in the mirror. We look outside. I rub your back. Your are not happy.     

    Then, I remember the blanket on the floor, so I sit us down and place you on your tummy. You go immediately to crawl position, but for some reason that makes you mad. Finally, I cross my legs and place you in my lap. I grab Mr. Frog and punch him here and there, and he begins to sing. And you are fascinated. I sing along with Mr. Frog, and I make him dance and walk away and come back toward us and dance some more. And you are happy.

    But here's what happened that stays with me. Amidst the dancing and singing frog activity, you turned your head and looked at me.  Twice. And something happened between us when you looked at me and I looked back at you, and you were okay with that. 

    And that's where we were when your dad came home. Foggy rain outside, the dogs curled up in their beds, and you and I on a blanket on the floor as Mr. Frog danced and sang.  Dad picks you up, and I hold on to the chair as I get myself up, feeling a bit creaky, and the three of us hug. I set off down the mountain in the beautiful rain and fog, and I can still see in my mind's eye, the way you turned and glanced up at me.

    
 

On Wednesday, I Sang to You

 Dear Luca,

    I would say that 95% of our time together today was spent quietly, while we walked (2 miles) and you slept and , on waking, you took your bottle and played with little colorful discs, looked at your book, and listened to me sing. Slowly, but surely, you begin to trust me. You'll accept the bottle I offer, and, as you can see from the photo below, your eyes to show some acceptance, right.

    When your mom left, it was pretty clear you didn't want to be in your high chair, and you also protested when I put you in your stroller, but it is a magic stroller: 5 minutes, protest; 5-10 minutes, look around at the pine trees as we head up and down the roads; then your eyelids get heavy, and you fall into a peaceful sleep, the wind carressing your little cheeks.

    But that didn't happen right away. I got you all ready, and the dogs were eager to start out, and we went out on your deck, but, alas, the rain. So we came back in and I fixed the bottle while you fussed. You were hungry. While you were drinking and pausing and playing with your little toys, I began to sing to you. I'm deeply grateful that you appeared to be enthralled by my singing, and I'm pretty sure you weren't faking it. 

    Look at you listening to me:

This was my song:

It's raining now

But soon we'll walk.

We'll walk and walk 

And walk and walk.

The rain will stop and

we'll go out

We'll go up the road

And down the road,

And pretty soon you'll fall asleep.

We'll walk and walk

And walk and walk

Up and down the road

We'll walk.

It is clearly my masterpiece, because when we did get outside, that's exactly what happened:

Of course, you wake up once we get back to your house. But even then, you sat in your stroller and looked around and talked to yourself a bit. 

    It began to fall apart about 20 minutes before your dad came home. I changed your diaper; you hated it. I walked and talked and hugged you. Uh-uh. We went from room to room. I picked you up and put you down; I offered you a little teething ring with strawberries in it.  But you had had enough. 

    Your dad came home: 

We'll get there, you and I. We'll get there one day.

Well, Now. This Is Better, Isn't it?

 

Dear Luca,

    I have to say that when I went to bed last night, I said a little prayer that my second time with you would go well, that our time together would pass peacefully--well, if not peacefully, then that you would get to know me better. You'd recognize me and the funny glasses that I wear.  (I had intended to change to my frameless glasses, but left them at home when I went up to the mountain house to get it ready for our renters.) 

    I love the drive up Boulder Canyon to your house. I get to brush aside all my anxiety about how our time together might go. There's not much traffic in the canyon at 11am, so I can take my time. I'm only slightly annoyed at the delays at Sugarloaf because of the construction. I like to pass Boulder Falls--there are always cars parked there--and then anticipate Barker Dam coming into view, with its big reservoir of water that announces my arrival in Nederland. That turnoff onto Magnolia Road comes quickly, and, just like the canyon, very little traffic that time of day.

    I arrived refreshed and ready to report for duty. So your mom and I had a little talk about how we might spend our time together, although I am thoroughly dedicated to the stroller, since that was our success last week. Your mom got you ready for your nap while I sliced an apple for myself. I hadn't eaten lunch. I heard her close the door to your room and tiptoe out. She began packing her bag for work--a power bar and some fruit--and we turned on the baby monitor and watched anxiously as we saw you sleeping soundly.  You are not a sound sleeper, not do you tend to take long naps, so, after your mom left, I pulled up a bar stool, began reading the news from my iPhone, but mostly keeping my eyes on the monitor. You slept and slept some more. Your house is quiet and calm, full of growing things, especially orchids, and brightly colored. It looks out on pine trees and blue skies, and you have a little flower garden, a water feature, and very tall tomato plants growing. It is quiet and serene in your mountain house. You lucky boy.

    Two times I saw you wake up, and both times was just about ready to go into your room, but you looked around, then closed your eyes and went back to sleep.  The third time, you were awake, just looking around, wiggling your little body. I remembered the common wisdom from when your dad was a baby: when they wake up, pick them up before they become fussy, so they can learn they don't have to cry to get somebody to notice them. So that's what I did. 

    You weren't all that happy to see me, and your were actually really unhappy when I put you on the changing table, took off your little sleep garment, and began to change your poopy diaper. But I stay calm. The fussiness doesn't bother me. I just say soothing things above the crying and pick you up to put you in your stroller. You're not happy with that, either, but I know our time is coming as soon as we get outside. I strap you in. 

    Then I let your dogs, Kitum and Rio in. "Feel free to take the dogs with you when you walk," your mom said. So I said, "Come on, dogs," and they ran out the door--Kitum, small, and lithe and sinewy and Rio, an older lab, large and black, lovable, both of them. They immediately disappear. You and I head out, going up your road a bit. As predicted, you stopped crying and started looking around. You did stare at me from time to time, but it was a more resigned, "Oh, it's you again," look. I called the dogs, I whistled, a whooped a little, but they were nowhere in sight. I began planning my speech to your mom and dad about how I'd lost their dogs. As we walked and you looked around on the hot and sunny day, I rehearsed several ways to approach the lost dogs subject when your dad got home.

    We walked for two miles. This we have in common. We're both happiest when we walk, especially on mountain roads. You slept for a bit, and at one point, Kitum caught up with us. I breathed a sigh of relief, but then he was off again. Two miles seemed the limit for both of us, so we headed back to your house. There on the front deck were those two renegade dogs, happily leaping and wagging their tails, their ears all perked up as if to say, "Where have you two been? We've been worried sick about you!"  So we all tumbled into the door. The dogs ran for their water, and I put the brakes on the stroller so that I could fix a bottle for you.

    Last week, if you read my entry, this is the point where things began to fall apart. I was prepared for that and had in mind all ways to distract you, and was making plans while I was getting the bottle ready. You stayed in your stroller, quiet and looking around, and playing with a colorful little gadget attached to one of the straps. I took a deep breath and offered you the bottle. You took it, and began drinking. And drinking. And drinking. I talked to you the whole time, and occasionally pulled the bottle away to wipe off the milk that had dripped on your chin. You drank almost the entire four ounces, and when you were finished, still in your stroller, you started playing with the colorful toys.

    You almost smiled at me. The picture above is the best I could get, but you have to admit, this is better, isn't it? 

    Your dad came home and your world became brighter beyond measure, as he picked you up and held you high above his head. You were delighted. You reached out to touch my face. and we all hugged. I headed back down the canyon with a full heart. We can do this, you and I.