thefutureisred

How, Exactly, Did I End Up Here With You?

Someone posted a comment here a few months ago saying something along the lines of how Noah and I must really like each other a lot in order to travel together the way we do. I suppose she's right. We must like each other. We must also work together really well. Seamlessly.

Right?

When I look through the posts I've written over the last year and a half, I notice that I have many about parenting, religion, family, so many other things, but not a single one about relationships. That must mean something.

Noah and I always have a lot going on. Where to go? How to get there? How long to stay? Where to stay? What to eat? How much will it cost? What will Lila do? How is Lila doing? Where can we find other kids for her to play? Where will she go to school? How is she adapting to the change? What will we do during the days with her?

And somewhere in there, the Noah and Leigh part of the equation becomes fuzzy.

Add to that a continual change of culture. You see, things move at a very different pace in Argentina. From what I can tell, no one plans ahead. Oh, they may have an idea of what the plan could be, but no one would consider telling you it's a finalized plan until the very last minute, because, quite frankly, things change. 

Add to that, all of us have adapted to the Argentinian schedule. Oh, and it's a wonderful way of life, really. It seems the day, in many ways, revolves around dinner, which doesn't even think of beginning until 10pm. This means, even if we eat earlier than most, Lila still doesn't go to bed until 11pm. Often not falling asleep until after midnight. She then wakes up at noon, at which point there's a rush to eat, dress, and head out for our day's activity.

Add to that, we are always together, rarely have time alone and generally spend most of our time in relatively small apartments and rooms with no real personal space at all.

We put ourselves on hold. We come last because so many other things need immediate attention.

Noah and I have been together a long time, almost twenty years.That's a good decade of marriage longer than many of the people we know our age. Over that time, I've learned a few things.

1. All couples fight. Our fights are much more mellow these days then they were in the past. Partly because there is a little girl around to hear them. Partially because we just don't have the energy or patience for huge dramatic arguments.

2. That you will not always be 100% (or even 50%) sure of each other. A friend of mine complained to me that she and her husband of 4 years were getting along horribly. She didn't like his family. She didn't like the way he interacted with their new son. She didn't feel he understood what it was like to be home all day with a child with colic (that I'm sure he didn't.) I began saying "Noah and I have been together long enough..." when she interrupted me. "Yes, I'm sure you guys don't have these petty fights anymore."

"Lord no," I told her. "I was going to say, we've been together long enough to know that at some point every relationship will go through a time when you seriously consider ending it."

Truthfully, it's when you work your way through those times that the marriage becomes stronger. It's easy to think of the day he proposed with a smile. Try doing the same when you think of the time she threatened to end things. Or he walked out angry one morning and didn't return or even call until well after dark. When you both thought "This is it. I can't live with this shit anymore."

3. You will repeat the same fights over and over for years and years. Some fights remain. A few drop off to be replaced by others, but mainly, it's the same thing year after year. Some see the lack of resolution as sign that the marriage isn't working. I've learned that that is simply the nature of tying your life to and living with another human being, especially when you spend a lot of time together. In the words of an old friend of mine, someone who happens to be the rector of an Episcopal church in New Jersey, "You marry the person who aggravates the least."

I suppose over the time, we've mellowed. The fights aren't as intense. We've learned to put off the issues and discussions until a more appropriate time. We've learned how to simply overlook some of those things, accept that your partner isn't going to change, accept that some of those things you can't stand, that you thought would be a relationship deal-breaker are simply part of your life now.

We are still learning to differentiate between those things that are important to bring back to the table for discussion and those that can be safely buried.

So with all this mess, how do you know if you should simply just end it? That, I can't answer because that is not my concern.

Right now, we are once again in between places. We leave this particular apartment in about a week. I'm not sure where we're going next. Possibly directly to Salta. Possibly to do some WWOOFING - work in exchange for room and board in a nearby community. I don't know yet.

On Friday, I'm going with a friend to a WWOOF site called Eco-Yoga Park just outside of Buenos Aires to see what's there and make sure they have room for us. If they do, we'll go for a week. If not, we will go to Salta. Whatever happens, we will have to make plans, and they will have to be made quickly.

Once all this has been figured out, once we arrive in Salta and have a place of our own, once Lila is settled in a daily routine with other children, then Noah and I will be able to talk. Sometimes it feels like that moment, that time will never arrive. But it will. It always does.

When Moms Go Wild, We Go Online

When Lila was first born, I posted on a website called Urban Baby, asking if anyone in our neighborhood wanted to meet up for coffee. A few people answered the post. We met. Then more answered. Then we met. Word of mouth spread about our meetings and before I knew it, I had upwards of 150 parents (mostly moms) on an e-mail list I sent out weekly. We had rotating play dates, outings to the park. A babysitting coop.

When I started getting bad migraines when Lila was almost two, I just couldn't keep it up anymore, so the e-mails and get togethers stopped. Then again, by that time, none of us needed the support we needed when our babies were, well babies. We had toddlers. Some went back to work; some stuck to smaller groups they met through the play dates. On and on. Still, my closest mom friends are from those early days.

But the thing about Urban Baby -- and it's non-censored off shoot, You Be Mom -- is there is absolutely no sense of culpability. You are totally anonymous and can say what you want, when you want to anyone you want. It's another sort of Girls Gone Wild, I tell you. I believe many of the woman post when drunk, too. So it's sort of Girls Gone Wild, Ten Years Later.

Through there, I have been insulted, told I must be absolutely awful in real life, accused of "flipping out" and been told "how sorry for my children" people feel. Water off a ducks back, really.

Ok, so I know you're all asking. "Why would I bother going to a site like that?" I even debated whether or not to post links to these sites because they can be such a time-suck and often pointless, but somehow thought that would be dishonest. I also figure, if someone wants to check it out, laugh, post or be drawn into some ridiculous argument about being fat or a complaint about guest bringing gross dishes to a well planned Christmas dinner, who am I to stop you? I'm also a bit embarrassed to show you what I sometimes do with my time when I could better use that time writing or really just staring into space.

Then, the other night, I was bored, didn't feel like working, but didn't feel like going to bed yet, so I logged on. I posted something inane about how I wanted Chinese food -- something I almost never want -- but hadn't seen a Chinese restaurant anywhere.

Someone posts back. "Me too. We're in Argentina." I swear, I just thought it was someone messing with me. But then, how could she know who I am? How could she even know I was in Argentina?

"We are too," I respond.

"SHUT UP," says this anonymous person, " We're in BA."

"Recoleta," I type.

It turns out, we are both in Buenos Aires for a month, living literally two blocks away from each other. We met today with kids in tow for a play date at the local park.

She is lovely. Her twins, two adorable, sweet five year old girls and Lila got along famously. It took less than a minute for the three of them to run off together. And they played happily the rest of the day together. Through the park, through lunch and then through both dads joining us at another restaurant for a bottle of wine in the warm summer evening.

Of course, it should come as no shock to anyone that I would meet someone through the internet, Couchsurfing and all, but this one suprised even me. It's one thing to post in Brooklyn, where it's wall-to-wall moms and all on You Be Mom. No one will admit it. Everyone says, "Oh, me! I dont' do that anymore."

But who would have thought, another New York mom with similar interests, similar outlook, who get along well, whose children get along well meeting through this horribly snarky site?

Now that I've met her, though, I think I'm done. I don't think I'm going to do that anymore. Why would I?

How Many Jews Does It Take To Make A Christmas Party?

Tomorrow night, there's a Couchsurfing Christmas dinner. Argentinians are with their families and don't seem to be around so much these days, but there are a lot of us others floating about.

Originally, I offered our place for the dinner, but when it seemed like more than 20 people were coming, the venue was switched to elsewhere. Now it's at Dan's place, and I'm doing what I can to help him organize.

Now it looks like it could be upwards of 50 people. This should be a lot of fun.

For me, this Christmas dinner is about meeting new people and spending time with other travelers who are away from home on a day they would normally be with family and friends. It's not just about the particular holiday.

But what about Lila? How does she see all of this?

I know I'm Jewish and it has always been such a part of my identity that I don't think twice about it. I know at least a few of my family members are worried that Lila will not be brought up properly Jewish. And if they want her to be Orthodox, then no, she will not be properly Jewish. I do, though, want her to know that she is Jewish, know the holidays, learn Hebrew, and have some idea of Jewish History.

I also want her to be able to go to a Christmas party, wish someone an Eid Mubarak or experience a Hindu wedding and not feel like she's doing something wrong. In fact, I hope she would want to know about other people's traditions, holidays and enjoy the celebration.

A few months ago, though, Lila got very upset when we told her she's Jewish.

"No," she shouted. "I'm not Jewish. Not Jewish." She stomped her feet and left I shocked. "What was that?" we asked ourselves. The first thought that we never wanted our families to hear her say these things, because they would most certainly blame it on us. That was fall out I did not need.

But I don't think either of us are anti-Jewish nor do i believe we have passed that message onto Lila.  It did make me wonder who in her life portrayed "jewish" as something bad. Then again, with a child of four years old, you never know how connections come together in their growing brains.

So how to deal with this Judaism issue? I don't want her to think I'm upset with her for not seeming to want to be Jewish. Because, really, I'm not even sure what it means to her to be Jewish. Then add to this, the constant travel? It's not easy. It's a priority to meet families with children because I want to make sure Lila doesn't spend all her time with adults, entertaining herself. But we rarely meet other Jewish families.

Much of our Judaism comes when we spend time with family and close friends. We light Chanuka candles with the cousins. Last Rosh Hashana we spent with Ken in Buffalo. Succot was with Ken, Rachel and finally my parents in Atlanta. We spend shabbat with friends in NY, with my parents, with Noah's sisters. And we do as much as we can on our own. I do have to admit, though, what we do on our own is a bare minimum, particularly when finding housing or transportation to the next city is on our minds.

This year, on the first night of Chanuka, we tried going to the Chabad chanuka lighting. When we arrived, we found nothing but an enormous chanukiya with the shamash and one light already lit. And crickets chirping.

So yesterday, when Lila asked me "When will Christmas be here," I started to worry about this again, because she hasn't asked a word about Chanuka.

What will we do?

We'll still go to this Christmas dinner, because it's important to have community wherever you are. But to make a point for Lila, we bought the makings of our own chanukiyah and will bring it along and light it, so we can all celebrate together, all of us, all the holidays. Everyone is welcome.

Art and Couchsurfing In Baires

How are things going here in general? Well, I think.

After so many times picking up, moving and resettling, we've become masters. I no longer feel the intense shock I felt when we first visited another country. I don't even feel the complete denial I had when we first left NY.

I do find myself constantly comparing parts of Buenos Aires to places and things I know, especially in NY. But then, Buenos Aires is very much like any other big city I've seen. Only they speak Spanish. Navigating the place is mostly the same. Although, I will admit, I find the bus system to be particularly daunting, the trains and walking is a pleasure. Easy to find your way around, and if you become completely lost or too exhausted to walk any further, there's always a cab nearby to whisk you home.

With the exchange rate between peso and dollar, cabs are remarkably cheap. Still, I prefer not to cab. You don't see the city by cab.

In our week and a half here, we've seen quite a bit. The feria in San Telmo. It's amazing. Perhaps one of my favorite things about this city. It begins as an antique market in Plaza Dorrego and spills out for blocks and blocks, filling the streets with people, performers, and people selling everything from jewelry to mirrors and toys.

I love how Buenos Aires supports artists like this. . More artists line the streets of Palermo on weekends as well. Painters, sculptors, jewelry makers, pottery, clothing and more than I can even remember. And there's an artesan craft fair every weekend on Avenida del Liberatador across from the Museo de Bellas Artes.

Suddenly, it makes perfect sense why so many of the people you meet selling things in Bocas are from Argentina.

This area around Bellas Artes has become our "go to" place when we want to have a mellow day. In Panama City, that was the Multiplaza Mall. In Bocas, the beach. Here, it's an area filled with children's parks, museums, and open air parks where you can walk, run, bike and play in the enormous trees. It's quite something. Yesterday, we visited Bellas Artes for the second time and happened to visit at the exact time of a choral concert in the lobby.

Couchsurfing here has been interesting. I've been in touch with a lot of people, but the distance between words and doing have a very different pace here. Things are postponed. Events change time and place. But the people are really lovely, open and warm.

They also tend to be a good ten years younger than we are and don't have children. At least, that is the demographic for the daily Couchsurfing event. Picnics in the park. Late night Chanukah parties. Tango in the square. All things I feel we are more than welcome to join, but not exactly the sort of thing Lila would enjoy, at least not on a regular basis.

Then again, it's only been one week.

What Is Said Through the Augury of Birds?

Playing a bit of catch up: It was a long and round about route to Buenos Aires, taking us through Miami, Panama, Bocas, Costa Rica, a short stop in Lima and then finally. Here.

Miami: Quick stop. Just running from gate to gate. We arrived late, so I wasn't sure we'd make our connecting flight. I asked a woman dressed in an official looking blue uniform how to get to our connecting gate.

"Turn left, then right at the sign," but clearly, she was disinterested.

What she failed to mention is that after turning right, you walk straight for ten minutes, then turn again, keep going, then up the stairs, onto a train. Once the train arrives, you take it I-don't-remember-how-many stops to another building where you keep walking until you reach a crowded waiting room in bad need of rennovation.

We made the flight, just barely. But Lila was hungry and we had no time to stop for food or at duty free for a bottle of wine (Sorry, Randall, at least I brought the M&Ms).

Panama: We arrive in the evening. The airport is packed. We wait for visas, wait for customs, wait for luggage, wait for immigration. Wait, while all the while Lila is still hungry and asking for food where there is no food. I'll admit, thought, she was unbelievably mature about it. It did break my heart, though, when she asked "Why, Mama, did you leave the marshmallows and chocolate chips on the airplane." She asked over and over and over. "I would eat them now," she told me. Even thought she hadn't wanted them on the plane.

IT WAS A MISTAKE. I DIDN'T MEAN TO LEAVE THEM IN THE FRONT SEAT POCKET WITH THE SAFETY CARD AND BARF BAG!!!! I'M SORRY.

Fred's car glided by Tocumen exit just as we walked out. Perfect timing. Thank you again to him for driving through the traffic and pouring rain to get us. We stayed up late talking. Then up early, early for Fred and Mel's new baby's naming. Ilana. She is adorable, looks just like Fred and is quite a child. You can tell she wants to be a part of everything.

I'd like to also add a quick thank you to Rochelle and Mark (friends of Fredd and Mel's) who had us over for Thanksgiving dinner. I love the holiday and was sad to miss it. They even had stuffing. Because really, what is Thanksgiving without stuffing?

That's when we learned of the flooding and mudslides in Bocas. "No way you're going," everyone told us. But I still saw updates on Facebook from friends there. They didn't even mention the rain. How bad could it be? We go anyway.

Of course, we almost don't make our flight because the alarm doesn't go off, and we wake up at the exact time we are supposed to be at the airport. Still, we jump around, shower, grab Lila still asleep and run for a cab to the airport making it just in time. Barely. (So now you know you can be late to catch the flight to Bocas and still be first on the flight if you have a child.)

We spent most of our time with Ozzy and Trevor. They lived in the house behind ours last year. Now, they've moved further down the beach. Ozzy cooked her amazing Turkish food. We hung out, talked, drank wine, and gossipped (once again) about everything we'd missed in Bocas over the six months.

A hawk perched on the tree outside the house, calling and singing while all the tomcats of the island prowled around looking for, well, I'm not quite sure what they wanted, because there weren't any eager female cats around.

What is it with all this bird imagery? First the cardinal in Atlanta. A very unexpected Thanksgiving turkey, and now the hawk.  If life is art, then someone is trying to tell us something.

I choose to think it's something good.

(More on the rest of the trip to come... specifically with pictures. Some really lovely ones from a cloud forest in Costa Rica, outside of San Ramon.)

Now If You'll Excuse Me While I Freak Out

We arrived in Buenos Aires this morning, and I don't even know where I am.

A night of no sleep. We made our way to our new apartment (for the month). It's a small one bedroom in Recoleta, which is an incredible neighborhood. We're renting with some old friends from NYC. As our flight landed at 5am today, I made a point of looking out the window for a first glimpse of our new city. Usually, this moment excites me. This morning, my exact thought, "Oh shit! Now what?"

Lila has been a bit of a tragedy and a disaster all day. I have never seen her so obnoxious. And just recently, she learned to snap, so she punctuates all her rude little comments and evil looks with a little snap.

I know, I know, lots of moving around. We're all out of it and cranky. We're all completely off schedule. I'm trying to have patience now that it's after 11pm and she's popped out of bed complaining it's hot, or it's cold, or she's hungry, or not tired. We take her back to bed.

We went for a walk earlier and she literally fell asleep on Noah's shoulders. But now, she's not tired. "But Mommy, I'm not sleepy." Which I'd like to add is a direct quote from one of her books. Why do people write books that give kids tips on ways to procrastinate going to bed.

Then the corrollary question, why do we parents read these books to our kids?

For now, no answers. I'm just going to assume that a night of sleep will even things out for all of us. Then we begin the business of settling in, because I'll tell you, I am done with traveling. As far as I'm concerned, this morning, we arrived home.

True Story: Not Just A Metaphor

Sitting in Miami airport. This section hasn't been remodeled yet and thus it reminds me of 1980 when I traveled back and forth to South Africa with my parents. A big messy sprawl of people with no sense or organization. The television behind me fights with the gate announcements and people talking. And getting here from our arrival gate wound us through a maze of walkways, escalators, doorways and trains that would make the deathstar proud.

But now we're here and our flight is about to board. Lila is exploring the seats, floor and her drawings with he magnifying glass, a present from my parents and a great compact travel activity. I didn't really want to leave. I'm tired of traveling, moving, resettling. For me, staying in one place, doing the same things and knowing my way around is more interesting these days. It made closing the door at our rented place in Atlanta difficult. Moreso than any closed door before.

Right before we left, a cardinal flew into the house. My first thought? "Bye." but of course, we used a towel to capture it as the poor thing fluttered and squawked at windows, getting caught in the blinds. We took it to the door, lifted our hands to the air and opened the towel. It was beautiful watching its red feathers disappear into the orange autumn leaves and blue sky. 

Now If You Could Just Release Your Grasp From My Pantleg

I went to NYC for Halloween weekend to finish the translation with Ali. It was a wonderful weekend.  The perfect mix between work, seeing old friends, parties, dinner or drinks, and time alone.  

It was odd not having two other people around all the time to consider before making plans, choices, thoughts. When I was ready, I went where I wanted and did what I desired.

It felt empty at first. Noah and Lila walked me to security, waved and waved as I walked beyond the point where they could go and two minutes later, I was alone. Well, I suppose as alone as one can be in an airport surrounded by thousands of people. But nonetheless, something was missing.

Soon enough, I began to enjoy the extra space, even as much as I loved my nightly calls with them. Lila took the phone, gave me an air hug, then rubbed her nose against the phone for our traditional nosey-nosey-nosey goodnight. “I love you because I miss you because I don’t want you to go and I want you to stay with me,” or some version of that she’d say.

Since I’m almost always with Lila, I rarely hear her on the phone. When I do, I’m struck with how much she sounds like Rebecca, Noah’s youngest sister. Rebecca and I used to spend a lot of time on the phone, mostly when she was in high school and college. Now that we don’t have those conversations anymore, it is difficult to hear Rebecca’s voice when I talk to Lila.

My weekend on 110^th and Broadway revived for me the days when Noah and I lived uptown our first year of marriage and the years before we got married. Halloween, I joined my mom friends in Brooklyn for a post trick-or-treating party. It was perfect. There, I saw all Lila’s old friends, all so grown up and mature, and met their little brothers and sisters, who are now the age Lila was when we left NY.

The same nostalgia poked at me as I walked through Morningside Heights. So much has changed. Grandma’s diner – where Noah and I ate grilled cheese with hot chocolate the night we got stuck downtown without money and had to walk 50 blocks in the freezing snow – is long gone.

Our last few trips to NY have been so unpleasant and exhausting, so it was nice to be reminded how lovely so much of my life had been. But it also made it all the more bittersweet knowing that in less than three weeks, we fly to Argentina and once again have no idea when we will return. If all goes as we hope, it could well be a very long, long time.  

I waded through a NY soup of memory until my friend Levy pointed out I was fighting with ghosts. “Why attach to things that no longer exist?” he asked me. Particularly, I thought to myself, when these memories fill my present with that slight sense of loss. Who needs it? And I tried to let go and enjoy my time.

Noah and Lila met me at the airport where. I saw Lila’s sweet smiling face first. She grabbed me and hugged me and didn’t let go for a long time.

Confessions of Raging Maniac

Few know this about me, but when I drive, I change into another person. I have no patience for stupidity and seem to find endless stupidity on these roads. People who are slow to go when the light turns green make me crazy. If you honk at me without good reason -- and you'll be hard pressed to find a good reason -- you'll hear me spew words that would turn a construction worker's head.

Noah met me in NY and didn't see me drive until a good four months into our relationship. Imagine his surprise to see this soft-voiced woman suddenly turn into Linda Blair. Lila, for her part, routinely tells me "Mommy, it's not nice to call people an idiot" when she's in the back seat.

"You're right, honey. I shouldn't say that."

"You really shouldn't," adds Noah quiety with fear in his eyes.

I am more than lucky that she has chosen not to repeat many of the other choice morsels she's heard (at least not yet).

Atlanta drivers, in particular, make me crazy.

Most of the day -- while people are at work -- traffic moves clearly and quickly. But then, then, the work day releases and thousands upon thousands of people scurry out of their offices into their cars and start navigating their vehicles on the streets with wild abandon.

They horrify me.

"But aren't NYC drivers so much worse?" you're probably asking. No.

See, people in NY drive like lunatics, too. They think nothing of leaning out the window to scream obscenties at a neighboring car. Or swerving from lane to lane just to meet their destination a few moments earlier. But at least with all that, you have this underlying feeling that these drivers know what they're doing.

In Atlanta, and indeed the south in general, somehow i'm not instilled with the same confidence. Example. The next time you drive on the highways here, notice all the skid marks. Now notice the roads are straight, not a curve in sight. There are very few cars on the road as compared to a NYC street any time of day. And the weather is rarely bad enough to warrant the skids and broken tire shards littering the highway.

What are these people doing?

Sigh.

I guess you can take me out of NY, put me on the beach, show me the beauty of Buffalo or the tastes of the south of France and Italy. I may be happy to have left the disjointed, moves-too-fast-to see life in NY, but a part of me will always be a New Yorker. A Brooklyn girl.

I'm kind of proud of that.

I May Be Flexible, But....

We're back in Atlanta and I'm in search of a good yoga studio. My requirements?

It must be nearby. It must have drop in classes. And it must be real yoga, not the kind of power yoga that turns a relaxing, challenge for your mind and body into the equivalent of a stretching on a treadmill.

It's not too much to ask. I know this. There have been studios that fill these three requirements in every single place we've traveled. Be that a small yoga class on the dock in Bocas or the three excellent studios within ten minutes of my bed in Buffalo, they're easy to find.

Usually.

Not here. I'm having the damndest time.

Ok, well, there is one place, called Sattva Yoga & Healing within walking distance. It does fill all my requirements. The philosophy and the classes look solid. The studio is pleasant and comfortable.There's just this one, well, there's just this thing that makes me a bit hinky. You see, this place is not only a yoga studio, but doubles -- should you require it -- as a colonic irrigation center. As the sign says, Yoga and Healing (wink wink).

At first, this was a source of much jokery. Yeah, let's go to the yoga place for a root and toot.  Or Noah's favorite, "Hey, we could go on a date." Can they do two at the same time? But now that I'm actually here and ready to attend classes, I'm finding it difficult to be quite so flippant. I checked the website and what I saw truly traumatized me.

Basically, you lie on your back on machine that looks like a pinball game. This contraption is called the, ahem, Colenz. Next, you insert the nozzle and lay a drape sheet over your lower half. There's a sign clearly stating, though, that the FDA requires everyone insert his or her own nozzle. For whatever reason -- a reason I am only mildy curious to know -- the technician can't do it for you. My guess: this reduces the number of fetishists coming in their door. (Or perhaps that's just an insight into my thinking I didn't need to share?) I'll stop right there with this description, but I will say the rest involves low pressure warm water, a scoop and handi-wipes. 

For those of you who care to know more, you can see and read all about the ins and outs of colonic irrigation in full diagramatic detail right here. All I can say is that I've been somewhat traumatised by the whole thing since I read it late, late one night last week. And I am not generally faint at heart when it comes to discussing body functions. I mean, I have an ongoing discussion about bedsores with a nurse friend of mine, and after spending more than one night covered in my sick shivering child's vomit, well, you see what I'm saying.

Otherwise, I have found no other yoga studios within a 20 minute drive. They may be closer mile-wise, but Atlanta traffic could use a bit of time on the Colenz too. So I may have to bite the bullet and just partake of these classes even with the Colenz in such close proximity.

Hey, you never know. Maybe I'll get used to being around them. And then, who knows where things can lead. They do, after all, have TWO machines.

Sometimes This Traveling Is A Bore, When It's Not Driving You Nuts

I was just in NYC. I didn't like it much. Two days there, and I find myself slipping back into the same habits as before. I stop saying hello to people, never smile at anyone. I keep to myself.

 

How did I not notice this when we lived here?

 

We carried some of this New York as we drove south for what may well be the last time. It might not; it might. The first day was hellish. Imagine this. Noah and I in the front bickering for at least three of the seven hour drive our first day. Did I say bickering? No, fighting. Straight out, no purpose fighting. We brought back past grievances and hurled accusations. There was shouting, crying and long stretches of silence following statements like “Whatever.” Or “This conversation is over.” And begin again.

 

I considered jumping out of the car and just running. Where? To what? No idea. I just wanted to get away from just sitting there with all that negative energy (yes).

 

This, thankfully, was infinitely better than our first drive to Atlanta after the first time we left NY.

Amazing how things have changed and yet the same patterns are always there. Traveling is exciting at the beginning. Everything is always new. Now, after almost two years, constant change has become our norm.

 

I've learned a lot since we left NY. Learned how to adapt to whatever situation arises. Learned to let go of the things we can’t carry with us. And I feel like I’ve moved closer toward the type of person I’d ultimately like to be.

 

Clearly, we humans like our patterns. In NY, I took the same roads to the subway each day, most times forgetting myself and suddenly finding myself ast my destination. While the streets were the same, when pressed, I couldn’t have told you which actual route I took. Did I go up Henry? Or Clinton? I didn’t remember.

Now I can't remember which road we took each of the six times we've driven this route (3 times round trip).  

 

They say children need boundaries, stability and routine in order to feel secure. When Lila tantrums because we want her to go to bed or buy her a new doll, and we refuse to budge because of the tantrum, she seems happier when we hold true to those edges. A new toy won’t make her happier, but knowing she is safe within defined borders does. The tantrums are horrible and often occur when stuck in traffic on a highway somewhere. I’m talking screaming unintelligibly at the top of her lungs, kicking the back of my seat, heartwrenching cries too. But after, after things all calm down, Lila will then repeat happily, “I was screaming so I couldn’t have chocolate.”

 

She understands.

 

I think we say that children need boundaries, though, because we so desperately need them ourselves. We just don’t have someone forming them, often arbitrarily, for us.

 

I suspect that once again it is all about finding balance. Routine is comfortable and necessary, but it can also become too binding. Complete freedom is wonderful too albeit extremely rare.

So back to the car driving down Interstate 81 -- or is it 81, 84, 85 or 95?. We're in one place but moving. We fought all day one, but day two the cloud lifted and we calmed down, figured things out.

 

Because when all is said and done, what else are we going to do but work it out?

The Inevitable Lightness of Dark (Or Some Such Nonsense)

It's the paradox of the move that does it. We're in one place but moving. Lila and I are baking cookies tomorrow for her teachers. Noah's picking up a package at DHL. It's our first day of dogsitting Cosby (who seems rather irate these days, although I'm mostly sure he wasn't offended by my last post.)

Everything slows down the week before we move. We don't go out as much. Don't see as much, and we don't seem to get as much done. Yet the days slip and slide forward so fast I don't know Monday from Friday. I suppose it's something like turning a corner. You're slowing down, slowing down, but really speeding up at the same time.

Does this make any sense at all?

I didn't make it to yoga and the abortion protest this week bc we went to Toronto again to see family. This coming weekend will be my last chance. I haven't started Lila's Halloween costume. We didn't go to Maid of the Mist or Cave of the Winds.

Between now and Monday morning, I plan to go through all our stuff, pick something up from DHL, launder and iron the cloth for Lila's costume, make cookies for Lila's teachers, give a donation to a couple charities around here, do laundry, mail some stuff back to Atlanta because it won't all fit in the car and plan the trip down to Atlanta. Also, go to four yoga classes so I can use up the rest of my ten-class pass (unless someone else wants it. If so, let me know. I'd be happy to ask Darcy if she'll transfer it to someone else), take pictures of the protesters. I have a list of questions in my head for them. Should probably write them down but whenever I try, I forget them.

Blah blah blah. Have you noticed that between moves I list all the things to do, to go, to be?

I've noticed. It's tedious as hell, but it's what in my head now. It's my process, so now those of you who have asked how we do this, this is it. To do lists and you just don't think about it too much more. You really can't think too much about it, because if you do, it's becomes more difficult to reach the ends of those lists.

Have I mentioned preparing Lila to go. We've already started the goodbyes, returned our library books, barbequed with the in-laws one last time. We go through our clothes and decide what to pack. Begin to talk about what we'll do next week, the week after, where we're going, who we'll see.

All this before Monday morning, when we start the decent from Move to Road Trip to Month in Atlanta to Deal with Last Details of Argentina to ARGENTINA.

It is evitable. A ball rolling down hill, and yet I still feel like I'm on the steep uphill of the next leg the journey.

Next Time I Start Screaming and Kicking...

Lila has been a bit of a terror lately. She can go from cute, cuddly and laughing screaming, spitting and kicking in the matter of moments. There are always reasons.

One: Lila licked an envelope closed, shut it and then when she opened it, "the sticky went away." I hate when that happens.

Two: "Mommy swiped her feet on the floor like a bull." I was just playing. I have no idea why that lead her to burst into hysterical tears.

Then once things calmed down a bit we went to Albright Knox for their free entry evening. We get there to find the front gate closed. Apparently, there's a B-52s show tomorrow, and no parking to be seen anywhere. Lila starts complaining again. Noah stopped at a liquor store for a bottle of wine (originally intended to grease us up a but before watching the debate). He went inside while I stayed in the car. Lila's began to lose control of her screams. She was hitting and kicking the back of my seat and as much of me as she can reach.

 That about did me in. I almost lost it.Instead, I climbed into the back seat and pulled my red-faced tear laden child onto my lap. She cuddled with me and immediately calmed down. Amazing!

"What's going on?" I ask her. She shrugs.

"Are you sad about leaving Buffalo?"

"Yes," she nods.

"Are you excited about going to Atlanta?"

Silence. I keep talking. "You'll get to see Granny and Grandpa, Sabrina and Vivian, Aunt Jane, too. Does that sound good?"

"Yeees," she tells me in her sweet child whine. "We should find a home for us."

"Where was your favorite place to stay?"

She didn't even pause before saying. "Bocas del Toro," in her perfect accent, full rolled 'r's.

"We didn't stay there because Mommy and Daddy weren't happy." Sure, sunshine all the time is lovely, but there's always a rainy season.

"We should get a dog."

"After we find a home, we'll get a dog."

"And a cat."

"Yes, and I cat," I reassured here.

Later, when we got home, she fell asleep on my lap while we watched Obama and McCain debate.

Now of course, I only tell this story because I was able to keep my shit together and actually handle the tantrum. See, Lila never had the Terrible Twos. Her Threes were pretty bellow too. Four, however, has been a major challenge for all involved.

I think a lot of us blame ourselves for our children's behavior. Mainly, because we are blamed for our children's behavior. By family, friends -- usually those without children -- and even strangers criticize. If you're lucky, the parent you criticize won't hear you or will just stand there lockjawed, tight lipped and wondering what it would feel like to just quickly punch you in the head.

Sometimes, I think it would be funny to break out into full fledged tantrum too. At least give people something to talk about. Something real. Because these tantrums are absolutely normal, even when they most definitely don't feel that way.

Thank You!

I've am simply overwhelmed by the response I've had from all of you!

Over the last few days, I've heard from tens of people, from strangers offering good will and advice to old friends saying hello and bringing lovely memories and some serious nostalgia with their words.

I got an e-mail from Andrea, the woman who teaches Sign-a-Song in Brooklyn. It's an amazing class to take with your child. The idea is that babies learn to use their hands earlier than they vocalize, so by extension, babies learn to communicate with their hands months earlier than they would talk. I cannot quite explain to you the feeling of seeing your 10 month old baby telling you she wants to eat or more or sleep instead of crying while you --tired new mom or dad-- try to figure out what's wrong.

Lila even modeled for the sign language book they published. That was a funny day. A bunch of mothers and maybe a father or two desperately trying to coax their under 2 year olds to sign, please sign, just something? please?. Lila, for her part, just sat there looking bald and cute, didn't sign a wit and then started signing for everything the second, literally the second we walked out the photography studio door, even signs she'd never used prior to that day.

There have also been countless comments and e-mails from people I've never met. People of all ages and genders.Travelers who wrote to share their experiences and make suggestions. Others who would like to travel but aren't quite sure what type of traveling they want to or can do.

Many of you have called me an inspiration. While I am beyond flattered by such a thing, I shy away from it because I'm honestly not sure what I, alone, have done to inspire. I have had an unbelievable amount of support, help and encouragement from so many people. I can't even begin to thank them all. Without them, my life would not have been able to take the direction it has taken.

I've been talking with the owner of another blog. Andrew from Lyved: Life and Living It. I'll be guest blogging for him, writing a piece called something like Leaving It All Behind and How To Do It. 

Your thoughts and comments have encouraged me to finish it faster than I'd intended because it seems like something people want to read (and every writer needs readers). You've also given me many more things to think about and to include in that article. It will be richer, clearer and better because of you.

So again, I find myself thanking others. You have inspired me to write more, to continue with this blog and the projects I have planned for it (because sometimes, blogging can be, well, more like slogging) and generally to keep moving and traveling.

ps. I am still reading through e-mails and comments and will write back to everyone individually as soon as I can.

What is Death To A Four Year Old?

We stopped in Silver Spring, MD on our way to NY, mainly to stop at the cemetary where Noah's mother is buried. We've been to visit three times since Lila was born. More often than we'd been in the ten years prior.

"This is where Daddy's mommy lives," says Lila as we drive into Mount Lebanon on Adelphi Road. She brings tears to my eyes, and I am amazed she remembers from last year.

All three of us stand by the grave. It's one of the few white headstones in the cemetary. On it, there's a tree with five branches -- one for each child she had -- two strong roots and Noah's father's ring embedded in the trunk. The headstone to the left marks the death of a Gertrude. She died on Noah's birthdate. The one to the right belongs to Martin. He died on Noah's older sister's birthday. Coincidence or no, it's creepy.

"Does Daddy's mommy lie down here?" Lila asks.

"She's underneath the stones," we tell her.

"How does she breathe?"

"She doesn't. You don't breath after you die.

Lila repeats these same questions with slight variations over and over.

At one point, she put her hand on Noah's shoulder and reassures him. "I'm going to get you a new mommy."

"You can't just get a new mommy," he tells her. "Can you just replace your mommy?" he asks.

"No," she replies, and I admit, I am mildly relieved.

Then Noah asks for some time to himself, and we go for a walk around the grounds. Lila does not want separate from Noah. She looks back, keeps him in sight at all times and gets anxious when we pass some bushes that obscure him from view. And of course, there are more questions.

Does Daddy miss his mommy?  Do people stick their tongues out when they're dead? Why is Daddy crying? Did Grandma Ruth die too? Followed by a symphony of Whys?

The questions were simple, but the answers are not. Questions humans ask themselves over and over during the course of a lifetime. People have built careers on answering these questions. They are philosophy.

What would you tell her?