Doll Baby

She stood barefoot in front of the right side of the couch, her toenails freshly painted purple. She had her back turned to the television which played some child's show in electronic pulses in the background. She stood slightly turned toward me so that I became a witness to what was taking place. She looked intently at the soft plastic blob which had been shaped into the form of a baby doll. This baby doll seemed more lucky than some of the other baby dolls around our house as this one had at least had some clothing unlike others she has who live day-to-day without the clothes they once had. She spoke soothing, soft words to the baby doll. Her voice, barely audible, rose just a half notch above a whisper. She was in her own little world at that moment. It was a world where she was caregiver, protector, mother to that precious baby doll at the end of her own little fingertips.

She gathered a large blue-and-white-checked blanket from the couch. Moments earlier, she had wrapped that blanket around herself so that the blanket became one with her into a wad of skin, muscle, bone and fleece not much larger than a basketball as she watched a show on television. Now, she reached for that blanket so that her growing arms could pull it to her body. This blanket had been a gift from the most recent Christmas season. I had placed it in my car one morning to have it at our ready in case we somehow ended up stranded on the side of the road and needed it as emergency cover while we waited for rescue. It was destined to have a nice quiet life. Destiny lasted until the moment she noticed it. She took note of that blanket on the first day it rode with us and almost immediately became attached to it then, so much so that it often became the cover she used when she closed her blue eyes for sleep in her bed at the end of a day. On this day the blanket rested on the couch until she pulled it to herself. She then worked to wrap her tiny baby in that over-sized blanket covering her baby doll with care and concern.

She spoke more comforting words to her baby doll. Words meant to convince the doll that things would be all right. Words that reassured the doll that she would be there for her if needed. She then urged the doll to close her eyes and rest. Her eyes remained locked on the baby doll, never once looking to the right or to the left, just straight into that doll’s face as if she were attempting to convince the doll that she was as serious as she could be, not only with her words but just as serious down deep into her bones, her marrow and her heart. Then, she reached up and took a small rebel strand of her own hair which had fallen out of place and was partially covering her right eye and pulled it back into place with the rest of her hair, a move I suspect I will see many more times in my life and a move I suspect will become part of what she does every day as she grows older.

She hovered over the baby doll much like her Mom and I have hovered over her. We have carefully wrapped her in a blanket or in some cover and spoke soft, soothing words to her. We have looked deeply, intently at her trying to communicate to her not just with the words we were speaking but with the very fiber of who we are. Now, she was emulating what she has experienced.

It is sobering to realize how children mirror what they become familiar with through how they are treated. It's so simple yet so complex. It's easy to talk about but it's difficult to implement successfully. Sometimes I find it staring me in the eyes cutting into my bones, my marrow, my heart and into every fiber of who I am.

She looked up at me. I smiled and said, “Hannah, I love you.” She smiled back at me, just enough to acknowledge she had heard my words before she reached up and pushed that small rebel strand of hair back into place and continued to take care her of her baby doll.

The Threes: A Work In Progress

My wife and I find every day with a three year old can be adventurous. Some days she’s talkative and inquisitive. Other days she’s even more talkative and outright bossy. And still other days she’s soft-spoken and demure. No matter the mood from time to time I think about a moment a few months ago when an older woman inquired about Hannah and how old she was at that time. Two, I said. The woman laughed and let me in on a secret she could not wait to spill and that was how sometimes the threes are worse than the much-ballyhooed terrible twos. And we have found that to be true for us with Hannah.

Because of all this, Jennifer and I refer to ourselves sometimes as “that couple”. You know “that couple”. You are at a restaurant or in public somewhere and there “that couple” is, with at least one child in tow and who, as best as you can tell makes this family unit march to the beat of the child’s drum. It’s “that couple” at the restaurant that you are seated beside and you find you cannot enjoy your meal because there is “that couple” with “that kid” who will not eat or sit in their seat or do much of anything asked of them by “that couple”. You know “that couple”. I know Jennifer and I know “that couple” because we used to experience public situations with them. Now, with the addition of Hannah, we have become “that couple” to our neighbors and strangers wherever we go.

Most people we encounter understand our current lot in life because at one time or another they have come to an understanding how they were known to others as “that couple” with “that kid”. For those who are so easily upset by us being “that couple” I would like you to know it isn’t like this all the time. You may not believe that as you try to eat your meal while the little three year old at the table next to you fills a spoon with macaroni noodles and then proceeds to clang the spoon against every glass or plate she can reach while giggling uncontrollably because it is funny to her to hear the different noises and to see noodles flying in all directions. I understand you may not appreciate that but please consider she is only three years old and also know she is a work in progress.

Despite those moments when we feel exasperated because there often seems to be no right response to the questions, actions or demands of a three year old, there are the moments when none of that matter.

Sometimes, it’s Hannah and her Momma cuddled on the couch while reading a book. Sometimes, it driving down the road and Hannah has “her songs” playing and in her soft voice she is singing along. Sometimes, it’s pulling the covers up to her chin at nighttime and wishing her sweet dreams and telling her to sleep tight and then telling her you love her and hearing her whisper “I love you, too”.

I know that over time what seems to be such an issue now will fade away and something else will take its place. Often that type of change is gradual and hard to recognize. The threes have been a challenge but maybe there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Recently, I dropped Hannah off at daycare. Leaving her there is tough. It can be filled with tears. Sometimes Hannah goes superhuman on me and unleashes a grip on my jacket or shirt so tight I am not sure I can escape without my clothes being ripped. And I walk away from there, sometimes hearing her calling my name from a distance, wondering how it would be if I could leave her here and her not behave as if it’s the end of her world but knowing how conflicted I will be when that day does come.

On this day though, Hannah marched into her room and began her day. I stood

behind her at the door to her classroom, made eye contact with her teacher and quietly stepped away. As I walked down the hall, I heard Hannah’s voice followed by the sound of her feet getting closer as she ran toward me. I turned around and there she was saying she wanted to give me a hug. She ran into my arms and hugged me. I sat her back on her feet and before turning away, she took my hand and kissed it then she ran back to her room. I watched her run back down the hall, not stopping to hang on to me, not wailing in the distance. She got to the door of her classroom and went in, disappearing from my sight. And there I stood, conflicted, missing the clingy little girl but proud of how she stepped up and out on her own like I know she will learn to do over time.

Every day is an adventure with her, an adventure worth living through the threes for the moments like those where growth becomes evident--growth in her, and sometimes, even growth in myself. After all, if it is one thing being her dad has taught me, it is she isn't the only one who is a work in progress.

Up In The Air

I walked down the long hallway, turned and walked down another hallway then turned one more time to face the elevators. I pressed the down button and waited for the doors to open. My business trip was over. Now all I had to do was travel 2000+ miles to get home. My journey started with those initial steps.

The picture perfect weather I had enjoyed during my trip was not available in other parts of the country on the day I was scheduled to return home. This became rather evident when I showed up at the ticket counter at the airport. The two attendants there asked me for my destination and with little hesitation broke bad news to me. Because of all the chaos in the airline world that day, my flight was delayed. It was delayed just enough that I would miss my connecting flight in Phoenix. These two veterans would work on a solution though. And they did. Soon, I was told about a direct flight from San Francisco to Atlanta. That sounded great. If it sounds too good to be true though, well then you likely know how the rest of that goes. The problem was I was not in San Francisco and San Francisco was two hours away by car. The solution-workers soon put together a plan and within minutes I was in a taxi being driven to San Francisco.

Normally, this might be an exciting thing; being driven, on someone else’s dime, through northern California. And at times it was. I was texting messages to friends such as “Do you know the way to San Jose because now I do” understanding that they would catch the obscure Dionne Warwick reference from 1968. Other times I recognized names of towns I had seen on maps when I was a kid studying an atlas wondering what it was like in such places as Watsonville, Fremont and Santa Clara and now here those places were over there and there and there. Despite the novelty, I still had concerns. I tried to not think about the Steve Martin and John Candy movie, "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" because even though I was comfortable on this ride I couldn't help but wonder if this experience might somehow end up with me needing a ride somewhere from Gus's son, Owen. I hoped the paperwork given to me at the first airport would really hold water in San Francisco. And then, if it did I still had concerns about making the flight back to Atlanta on time because a shuttle van awaited there and would leave at 11 o'clock that night---with or without me. And, of course, the overriding concern constantly running through my mind during the whole cab ride was how so many things had to come together just so I could get back where I belonged, with my wife and daughter.

As we drove north to San Francisco, I thought about one of my favorite bluegrass songs and how the lyrics often speak to me when I am on the final leg of a trip away from home. The King of Bluegrass Jimmy Martin once wrote these words:

“Hold whatcha got, I'm a-coming home baby

Hold whatcha got, and I don't mean maybe

Been a-thinking about you and I'm on my way

Don't sell the house, and don't wreck the car

Stay there, honey, right where you are

Hold whatcha got, I'm a coming home to stay”

As we drove into the day I couldn’t help but think of those words over and over as if saying them would somehow make everything fall into place like I needed and wanted them to do. Weighing my anxiousness with the helplessness of the situation I felt like some desperate character in some bad movie where he pleads with God to just let things happen the way he needs them to happen and if those things fall into place then that person would never do bad things again despite his knowing deep down such a promise would be forgotten once what he wanted had been satisfied. Still, I ran the Jimmy Martin lyrics through my head over and over and seemingly followed it up each time with something along the lines of 'Please, dear God, have all this work out and I promise I will never leave home again. Ever!'

The San Francisco airport turned out to be an easier situation than what I feared. The paperwork to get me onto the Atlanta flight was processed and soon I was waiting at the gate with a couple of hours to kill. Then, I noticed the flight would be leaving twenty minutes later than advertised. God bless Delta Airlines, they have often stated in their advertising that they are ready when I am but they just couldn’t pull that one off on this day. I sat there adding time and time zones in my head hoping things could still be pulled off the way I needed them to happen. Of course, ultimately there I was at the mercy of so many things so all I could do was just play along.

Once on the plane I found myself stuffed into a middle seat between two other guys. Of course I was happy just to have a ride back to anywhere near home. I likely would have ridden with the baggage if they would have allowed. I was a beggar not a chooser on this flight. When the gentleman next to the window, who already had caused a slight delay in boarding when he had multiple bags to check, took his jacket off before the plane took off I detected a whiff of body odor and I briefly imagined this long flight would consist of me taking deep breaths and holding those breaths as long as I could. Still, beggar here, I could do this flight if it just got me nearer where I belonged and even if it included someone nearby who needed a Mennen speed stick.

The flight was uneventful. I finished reading a book I had started on the flight to California and then spent an hour or so watching the on-board tracking system on the seat in front of me. Then we were on the ground. Many on the plane had to connect to other flights so we all looked like we were on some hidden camera game show when we actually got off the plane, dashing and darting in all sorts of directions. I had to retrieve my luggage and then find my shuttle. The plane was still twenty minutes late so by the time I would actually exit the plane I would have about 30 minutes to get to my ride.

A tram ride later and I found myself standing in front of the luggage carousel. I looked at the clock on my phone for the first time in hours. I had twenty minutes before my ride pulled away from this place. As I stood there I noticed a digital sign above the carousel. It provided an estimated time when luggage would arrive. I spotted San Francisco and my flight number on the screen and discovered my luggage was not scheduled to arrive here for another ten minutes. So I stood there, holding what I had and wondering if I really had to could I live without one week’s worth of life I had stuffed into that green suitcase. I stood there and others began joining me looking for their things. I looked to the bend of the carousel on my left side and spotted something familiar; that ragged green suitcase, the one with the damaged zipper and the ugly neon green name tag. I walked over to it like it were some long lost love then scooped it into my arms like Superman would pick up Lois Lane and carried it off toward the electric doors leading away from this place.

Having been in California for days, I really hadn’t thought how cold it would be at a quarter before eleven at night in Atlanta. Sunny and sixty five in California was now clear and thirty degrees in Atlanta. The wind bit me hard as I walked to the shuttle line searching then locating what I thought was my van. As I grew closer to the van disappointment latched on to me as I discovered this van was headed to Athens. I scoured the nearby area with my eyes as I shivered in the cold but at that moment my van was nowhere to be seen. So, I stood there in a makeshift line with others, weary from travel for what seemed like a long time but what was in reality only a handful of minutes when the van that would be my ride home appeared. Soon, we were loading luggage into the van and stepping into the van to escape the cold.

I took the seat in the very back. The seats filled up, eight passengers and a driver. I found myself sitting with a talkative man making his way back from a work week in Mexico. I could tell he had traveled a good deal in his life as he explained how his journey had led him to the very moment we were sharing, a story similar in some respects to mine. We laughed and joked how at times during the day neither one of us were sure we were going to make it to this place at this time. This man was nice enough but it was late and I was hoping he would not talk the entire two hour trip because I wasn’t sure I could remain interested in what he had to say but also because he needed a shot of Listerine for his extremely bad breath. Soon enough, we were rolling away toward our destination. Some fell asleep on the van, some stared off into the lush velvety black of the Georgia night. I looked out the window and even in the dark visualized the stretches of road we were on as I have traveled them enough to know the flow and sway of the highway like it was a part of who I am. Time passed quickly enough and just over two hours removed from the Atlanta airport, I was sitting in my car pulling out of the shuttle lot headed home.

It takes about a half hour to drive from the shuttle lot to the house. I pushed my car into the night across familiar roads and streets. I drove by places where we go to the doctor, where we buy groceries, where friends call home and where we live life. I was so close to putting the time away behind me. And before I realized it, I was home. I pulled into the garage closing the door behind me. I gathered my bags and made my way into the dark and quiet house.

I sat my luggage down in the hallway. Just as I had started this trip, I stepped down the hall and peeked in on Jennifer who was asleep, no doubt a bit more tired than usual having had the full responsibility of tending to Hannah for days and days without any help from me. Then I made my way to Hannah’s room. There I stood at the foot of her bed and watched her sleep wondering if she had missed me while I was away.

A full reunion would have to wait until we were all awake and for now that would be fine. I made my way into the kitchen and munched on a couple of peanut butter crackers while sorting through the week’s mail. I then stopped and soaked it all in as all the anxiety stretching back to before the trip started until just a few hours before lifted away from me. All the things that needed to fall into place did, at least enough so that I could get home. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. I was back here, I was exhausted but I was back where I belonged.

It was the best feeling I had in days.

Dionne Warwick: "Do You Know The Way To San Jose?"
"Owen" from "Planes, Trains and Automobiles"
Jimmy Martin: "Hold Whatcha Got, I'm A-Coming Home Baby" 
For a more recent version of the Jimmy Martin classic try Nickel Creek's version: "Hold Whatcha Got, I'm A-Coming Home Baby"