9 hours 12 minutes: begrudgingly receiving

Almost a year ago I wrote a post entitled "you make me feel like an incompetent woman" about the guilt I felt when Charles does things for me. Nearly a year later, navigating NYC with an infant in tow, I find that I must ask help from people all the time.

Recently, on the trip back from Honolulu to New York, I needed help, and knowing that made me all shades of irritated and resentful. When the crew called for those with children to board first, I guiltily passed the waiting crowds, worried they'd all be thinking "oh no, a baby!" I'd been assigned a seat at the bulk head, which I'd read was good for mothers with babies, but why was beyond me as there was no place to store my diaper bag at arms length. A middle-aged Asian lady sitting across the aisle from me offered to stow it in the overhead compartment, and I thanked her, feeling guilty for being a burden and annoyed that the diapers, wet-wipes, and my reading material was now out of reach. The seat next to me was empty and the man on the other side of it looked over at Ike and said, "well, you've got your hands full! I'll get the bag down for you later if you need it." I nodded nervously, smiling, assuming he was thinking "oh, crap, I wonder if I can get a different seat." I turned away and began to nurse Ike, hoping no one else would take notice of me and that oh God, pretty please the seat next to me would stay empty.

Much of the time I prefer that people take no notice of me. And asking for help is bringing attention directly to myself, like saying, "hey, come here and chat!" to perfect strangers. I worry: How can I repay them? Will they think I'm rude because I won't want to talk? What's the point of talking to someone I'll never see again? Or more poignantly, the self-criticism: Why don't I just relax and enjoy talking to strangers? I dread being drawn into conversation with some horribly well-meaning person who'll yap my ear off. I suspect I'll be sitting there and thinking all sorts of snippy retorts in my head while saying with contrived politeness, "hmm, yes, I see." Although, for the record, this rarely happens. My fears are generally unfounded, and are based on an unbecoming social squeamishness.

I felt God must have heard my plea when the plane filled up with passengers while the seat next to me remained empty. I had just begun to gloat when the stewardess announced they were selling the remaining seats to stand-by fliers. Within minutes a tall, thin, and well-tanned woman in her mid-30s sat down next to me. She smiled vacantly when she saw Ike and crooned, "ooooh, is that your baby?" I paused and tentatively said "yes..." thinking, but not saying, "no, I stole him from a couple in the airport." What the hell? Just the kind of communication I hate. This 9 hour 12 minute flight was going to be awful. She was probably returning from vacationing on Maui with her college sorority sisters. Ugh. Serves her right to sit next to a baby.

Me and my evil thoughts. I don't feel nice thinking them, which adds to my general bad mood. When the stewardess came by to offer drinks, I was slinking lower into my seat, Ike asleep on my lap, my eyes glued to the monitor announcing 8 hours 24 minutes left on the flight. But maybe God heard my prayer after all. "Do you want a bassinet?" she asked. "Sure," I said, "if it's no problem." When she returned, my well-tanned neighbor helped attach it to the wall directly in front of her seat and offered to switch seats with me if I liked.

I didn't get but a few hours sleep on the plane, but the baby slept well in his little carriage. When I drifted off to sleep the man two seats over watched Ike, even putting his pacifier back in when he became fussy. He commended me for breast-feeding, and told me about his own children. The Asian woman offered to hold Ike so I could go to the bathroom, and helped me change Ike's diaper as well. Ike was as good as could be expected, and no one seemed terribly put-out by his presence. Ms Well-Tanned slept most of the trip, and my heart softened toward her when I noticed how unhappy she looked asleep. The same friendly man who watched over Ike struck up a conversation with her, and I overheard her say she had gone to Maui to get some space after a painful breakup with her boyfriend. Sigh. I'm so quick to judge the well-tanned, successful-looking people of the world.

All said, it was a fairly good 9 hour flight, primarily because of the help of strangers and Ike's good temperament. What kind of example do I set for my son if I slink down to determinedly do everything myself instead of accepting what God so freely gives me through those around me? I know this is one of the challenges of my personality: to learn how to graciously respond to strangers without allowing my suspicious nature and fragile ego to get in the way. I can ask for help when I need it, and enjoy receiving it, and not to take myself and everyone else so seriously. The words of St Philaret ring true, "in unforeseen events let me not forget that all are sent by you."

a little potter with chocolate goes a long way

It's hot in New York. I'm sitting on my futon with all four fans running, thinking. Thinking about what I could do tonight, since I'm not going up to New Haven to see Nostalgia. I could go to Trader Joes. I could do some of the freelance work I didn't do while on vacation last week. I could go jogging in Bronxville. I could unearth my suitcase from under the pile of clothes I pulled out of it and clean my room. Or I could finish off the chocolate bar I bought at the airport and then take a nap with my face buried in the next chapter of Harry Potter.

All options--besides unpacking and the freelance work--sound good to me, and seem equally likely ways to spend the evening.

It's been a bit of a rough ride of a week, and I've got a lot to think about. My Mum got remarried to a man I didn't meet until a day before the wedding. Two people I know died last week--one quite tragically. A close family member had emergency surgery for a critical condition. And I've had a few serious conversations with the man I seem more or less to be dating.

Mid-July I went to Portland for a week, ostensibly for the wedding. I hung out with my brother and sister, bantered around with my Dad, slept in my childhood bedroom, had dinner with my ex-husband's brother's ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend, talked to people at the wedding I haven't seen since I was a little girl (they all seemed to think living in New York was paramount to living on the moon), fielded awkward questions from people at church, spent a few misty days at the Oregon coast, and hiked up by beloved Eagle Creek in the Columbia Gorge. Since I haven't been back to Portland in four years--for reasons too complicated to discuss here--the trip was both exhilarating and exhausting. In the short time I've been back in New York I haven't really managed to put myself back together again, much less readjust to Eastern time. My refrigerator is empty, my clothes need to be put away, and my mail needs to be opened. And Fr John, Jenny, Anna Pepper and Natalie are arriving this weekend for yet one more funeral.

No wonder a little Potter with chocolate, while laying on my bed, sounds enticing.

P.S. Photos from Oregon, and the wedding, can be found here: oregon, family, wedding set on flickr.

our personal pilot

I like airplanes. I take great pleasure in being forced to do nothing but read or write in my journal. I get annoyed if the passenger next to me wants to chat. I want to be alone with my books, colored markers, and my coveted window view.

But Nostalgia is afraid of airplanes, she is terrified of flying in them.

We're at the airport waiting for our flight to Denver. She is nervous and keeps putting her fist over her mouth or telling me stories of airport security breaches. When we arrive at our gate she turns to me and says, "Let's play the game of who's-the-terrorist." She then strides over to the window and skeptically surveys the gleaming flying machine we’re soon to board. The fuel pump in her car went out this week--which clearly means our airplane may exhibit the same behavior.

As we stand in line to board our plane the intercom broadcasts two detailed announcements about airplane mechanical problems--a mechanic is needed at gate 12, while the plane parked at gate 29 will need to be swapped out for a new one, the speaker cheerfully elaborates, "as this plane won’t be leaving the ground anytime soon." I fly a few times a year and never have heard these kinds of announcements before, or at least never listened to them. Nostalgia gives me a significant look.

We wait at the bottom of the ramp to board the craft. There is some sort of hold up. The woman behind us is holds a tabloid with a headline reading, "Going Postal!" in block caps. Then the captain strides out of the cockpit and walks over to small door off the ramp, opens it, and yells to the mechanics below, "Turn it off! Turn it off!" Nostalgia looks at me with huge eyes.

Finally seated near the rear of the plane, next to the window, I settle in for a long luxurious flight. I open my magazine while Nostagia leans forward, listening intently to each word of the safety instructions. Twenty minutes later we still haven't moved. Thunderstorms to the West block the air traffic window that all NYC airports use. Nostalgia grips my hand.

But then the improbable happens. The kindly Midwestern-looking middle-aged woman sitting next to Nostaliga turns to us. She tells us she is an international pilot for Continental airlines. She explains the delay, and why we need to wait. She gives details about what is dangerous and what is not. For the remainder of our flight, each patch of turbulence, each jolt, or turn of the craft is carefully explained by our personal pilot. Nostalgia grows noticeably calmer.

I turn to the window and gaze at the hazy patches of green and yellow below while Nostalgia buries herself in the New Yorker. The fuel pump seems to be working fine.

preparing for flight

airplane shadows

I consider it extremely good luck to have the shadow of an airplane fall on me, and it happened again today for the second time this week.

The first shadow passing took place Wednesday morning as I sat on the couch in my living room reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time. A plane flew overhead and for a short time the brick wall of the Chinese Baptist Church—which my living room windows face—was briefly darkened. The second shadow past this morning after I arrived at work. I've worked here six years and this is the first time an airplane shadow fell through the skylight onto my desk.

fighting the mice and a little airplane

I'm taking a break from ridding myself of mice. Sitting at my computer in the living room, German pop music playing: Sie kann fliegen.

I have a mouse or two. They nibble at the bottom of the plastic grocery bags that hold my garbage, making holes large enough for themselves to burrow into a paradise of fair trade coffee grounds, used lemon-ginger and Moroccan mint tea bags, discarded strawberry stems, empty organic milk cartons, torn-up receipts, old nylons.

My garbage bags hang from a clever wire rack on the inside of the counter door under the sink. But today I bought a metal garbage can, which will hopefully deter the wild foraging of my little furry housemates. I stuffed a whole package of steel wool into the crack at the back of the cupboard floor against the wall, hoping to keep the mice out. Empty paper bags, cleaning supplies, plastic gloves, cleaning rags, and unused rolls of paper towels are scattered across the kitchen floor. This sight tired me; I came into the living room and found 2raumwohnung on itunes.

I don't think Mary's suggestion of making new body memories is helpful in this particular case. What's the point: they aren't my memories. My dad wasn't that person, and I wasn't any other than the stubborn, serious-eyed girl who despised her father mainly out of self-protection. And I don't despise him now anyway, I've mined my childhood for every beautiful memory—every camping trip, every tree lovingly identified, every early morning dig for fishing worms—and these have become the map I use to remember.

On Saturday night I dreamed about Little. I dreamt I was waiting in a sunny field that served as a runway for small aircraft. A little airplane flew in, landing in the green grass. Little may have been flying the plane, although this was not clear in the dream. I watched, waiting beside some sort of white sign or barrier. Little walked from the plane over to me. He wasn't skiddish, but calm and confident. He smiled and gave me a warm hug, and his chest smelled of summer and freshly washed cotton. Things are definitely going to be OK.

It's late and I need to put the kitchen floor back under the kitchen sink.