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.