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.