December 30, 2006: Cabin Fever

We are house-bound after the second blizzard in 8 days. We saw this one coming, though, and made a quick evening trip into Woodland Park before it hit for provisions and Chinese take-out. Everyone said Woodland Park would be more liberal than the place we were before. In Wrightwood, however, I was never ministered to by a Mormon missionary in the dairy section of the supermarket. I suppose we are awfully close to the Springs, headquarters of Focus on the Family, for me to expect anything but the smallest sips of rationality and liberality. Woodland Park at least has Quakers.

We are growing a little squirrely after so many days wandering our house and camp, but it’s hard to complain in a place so breathtaking. Colorado snow is a different breed altogether than the east coast stuff. This is the fine, fluffy powder that brings tears to the eyes of even the hippest snowboarder. When a breeze blows, silvery dustings spring from the branches and explode out in every direction as if someone disturbed a gathering of fairies. The sky is that hue of sapphire that makes people remember why blue has always been their favorite color. I really cannot get enough of this place. And that only covers the outdoors. Inside is a Taj Mahal all its own.

Have I mentioned the bathtub? I really should mention the bathtub. If we had arrived and found a one-room shack with particle-board walls and concrete floors, I would have taken it anyway. Just for the tub. I have no doubt that this tub was designed by a stay-at-home mom given free reign to give shape to her fantasy. It is a deep, rounded oval wide enough to sit in cross-legged and comfortably hold a happy, splashing infant. It is even large enough for a spouse to come and visit, and still have plenty of room for said bouncing baby. When spouse and child vacate, steaming water can fill the tub to the rim, and mom can disappear entirely into its soothing, healing depths. Cabin fever is no match for this tub.

We are still somewhat cut off from the world beyond our camp, though. The internet is currently only available to us in the office, about 150 yards from our house. Not a long walk unless you have to trudge through 3 feet of snow to get to it. We have no TV and the radio, sadly, does not tune into NPR. No newspaper delivery, either. Our postal carrier, Rusty, is an aging wild child who only ventures up our road when the urge strikes. He delivered the mail once this week. Which means our Netflix movies, bank statements and Time magazines will be sporadic but welcome links to civilization.

So, dear friends and loved ones, feel free to call us at your convenience and remind us of the world we once knew. You can find our info here.

December 26, 2006: New Home for the Holidays

We made it to Colorado. Just in time to unpack the U-Haul and zip it back to Woodland Park before the snow started to fall. And fall. And fall some more. We ended up with 2 ½ feet of it, and we were grateful for the gallon of milk and lunchmeat we had picked up on the way in.

Dear old dad, who had so gallantly helped truck all our earthly belongings along I-40, became one of the 4700 refugees trapped in the Denver airport. He somehow made his way out of Colorado on a 9-hour Greyhound red-eye to Albuquerque in order to find any flights back to Virginia. The experience has deepened his comprehension of the daily challenges facing working-class America. Being stuck in an airport for a tow days is one kind of misery. A storm-slammed bus depot is another level of hell altogether.

The atrocious weather held one hidden blessing, however – my sister and her little family had planned on flying from Colorado Springs to Virginia last week, but their cancelled flights allowed them a detour to our new home in the mountains for a pre-Christmas weekend instead. This may be our last visit before they head to Germany.

We also made it to the Rockies in the nick of time for the onset of Eliot's 3-month growth spurt. He has decided to celebrate our arrival by nursing every hour around the clock. I am eternally grateful to the god of babes and boobs that Eliot held off until we had a warm, cozy cabin for cuddles and meals. While I have mastered the art of speed-feedings in the passenger seat while Toby fills the car with unleaded, I am happy to give up the opportunity to make it a regular activity. Cold, wet interstates are also delightful locations for changing babies' pants. It seems that middle America has yet to welcome the innovation of a restroom changing table. 

For most of the journey from California, the baby fared far better than the dog. Eliot still crashes out at soon as the car starts moving, so we only had a handful of torturous howling sessions en route while we searched for suitable nursing stops. Fenway, however, spent every moment in the vehicle standing up with her head draped over the back seat, panting into Eliot's baffled face. She went a solid 30 hours without a single drop of urine escaping her anxiety-riddled bladder. Fenway is, however, a mountain dog through and through. One camp is as good as any other. She has used ever moment since our arrival here to frolic ecstatically in the snow and terrorize the bunnies that populate our camp.

We have moved enough of our boxes into corners and closets to see this house as it will be, and we have to wonder what on earth we did to get so lucky. We have space here. Quite a bit of it. Room for Eliot to grow, room for guests to carve out a little niche for themselves, room to stretch out and enjoy a fire crackling in the fireplace while we play Carcassonne. Camp Shady Brook is 45 minutes from the nearest sliver of civilization. Woodland Park is big enough to provide us with several options for groceries, take-out, and Sundays at church or the sports bar. Yet it is cozy enough not to have been saddled with a Wal Mart. Yet.

Otherwise, we are quite at home in the neighborhood of snow-capped mountains and a fork of the Platte River running through camp. Eliot has already grown accustomed to us bundling him up in his bunting and meandering through this stunning place, taking it all in. The still of winter holds its own glory. But come spring, when campers start to make their way up here, this place will truly become our home.

December 6, 2006: Colorado Bound

So, to assuage your curiosity, the answer is yes, Toby did accept the job in Colorado. We have already packed a few dozen boxes and, reserved a U-Haul, and begged various family members to help us along the way.

Toby’s start date at Camp Shady Brook is December 27. Yes, that’s December 2006. Hold the phone, you say. Isn’t that soon? Like, right now? We plan to be in Colorado a few days before Christmas. We gave ourselves exactly 12 days from the moment Toby accepted the job to the night the truck must be stuffed full, locked, and ready to roll.

Did I mention we have an infant? 

I packed exactly one box today. I was pretty proud of myself. And I actually finished printing out and stamping all our holiday/change of address cards. I have mixed feeling about this particular accomplishment. If I were on the receiving end of a mass-produced, holiday postcard doubling as a moving notice, I would probably find it tacky and impersonal. Well, I suppose it is. But I hope my loving and forgiving friends and family will recognize this awe-inspiring feat for what it is: a somewhat creative and well-intentioned project actually completed by a new mom so exhausted she sometimes wakes up on the couch in the middle of the day, surprised to find a baby in her arms. I think I deserve a little pat on the back.

I am still managing to take decent care of myself and Eliot. Toby seems to be fending for him self with no problem, thanks to Progresso and Yoplait. Most members of our little family are accounted for. This morning, I even managed walk with Fenway and Eliot. On my way back home, I stopped in the camp dining hall to borrow a few plastic plates to use once our dinnerware goes into boxes. A few hours later, when Toby came home for lunch, I noticed Fenway had not chased his car down the driveway. Toby went outside and hollered after her. No crazy black dog anywhere. I told him I had not seen her since our morning walk.

“Did she come home with you?” He asked.

“Of course. She always comes home with me.”

“No, I mean, did she actually come down to the house with you?”

“Um. . .” The moment of realizing one’s own failure is like swallowing wet cement. I trudged up to the dining hall and let out the poor, imprisoned pooch. She was overjoyed to see me, though I cannot imagine why – you’d think she would have a little more animosity towards her jailer. I deposited the baby with his daddy and took Fenway on an honest-to-goodness dog-only walk. I just hope that in the future, remembering the pooch does not supplant my ability to recall some equally or more important being.

I fear the next few weeks may consist of a series of blank spots strung together by searing moments of guilt and perplexity – misplaced credit cards, burnt broccoli, failure to return calls from people who have enough time to pick up a phone – and are kind enough to use it to reach out to frazzled us. I keep a tight grasp on the optimistic picture of a clear-headed, well-rested self sometime in 2007. Though my mom-friends tell me I might as well give up on that until Eliot starts first grade.

December 5, 2006: Two Months Old Today

Last week, I kissed your cheek when you were crying and tasted salt. Real tears have started to pool in the tight slits of your eyes when you cry, wetting the edges of your face. And then, you are happy again. You smile. I melt. I cannot hold you close enough.

Your emotions are so much more intense than I ever imagined they could be. I know babies cry passionately, but I have to admit, I have always secretly thought of babies as sort of vacant humans-in-training – cute, loud, and a little dim. But I watch you as you move through your day, and I am finally starting to understand your true complexity. This morning, you attended, with utter concentration, to working your thumb into your mouth. You stayed engaged in this activity for nearly 10 minutes. I eventually changed your position, assuming you were growing bored with staring at the back of the sofa. You wailed in protest, disintegrating into tears. It’s easy for me to forget that each and every task is monumental in your world. Your thumb is your doctoral dissertation, your brain surgery.

You swing rapidly between total need and growing independence. It happens so fast, I can hardly keep up. A few nights ago, you lay quietly on the bed for over an hour, gazing around the room and gnawing on your fist. Then, without any fanfare or warning, you were asleep. All on your own. Other nights, you howl for hours and only sucking on my deflated breasts will console you. I can hardly breathe without you waking up with a sob, your hands clinging to my shirt, your eyes searching for me.

Your crying has taken on new power and dimension. In an instant, your face twists and molds into something wholly different from it usual fleshy roundness. Diagonal creases cut across your forehead, your cheeks become taught canvas. The blood rises as if you have been microwaved. You open your mouth, your tongue vibrating with the ear-splitting tremolo of your voice. Your back arches into a tight C, your head and bottom both reaching across the room. Your fists open and close and your palms sweat. Then you freeze. I stare in awe at the sculpture of your fury, your face frozen, your breath arrested for the 2, 3, 4 seconds it takes you to gather strength. Then, with a mighty gasp, you let loose a howl powerful enough to shake the house from its foundation.

I understand you sometimes just feel with intensity and need to let it out. So, you cry. I hold you, listen to you, and give you my loving attention. I try not to rush in with a fix or a bounce or a distraction. You are finding your voice and learning to navigate the landscape of your own emotions. But inside, I roil with the urge to protect you. When your flailing hand brushes the skin of my chest, you play every note of my love for you– wonder, fear, and confusion, all at the same moment as despair, trust, ache, and hope. The cacophony of feeling makes me tremble in the deepest place, the chord you play terrible but somehow in perfect resonance with me.

When you are in my arms, finding your own way, I am also holding a part of my own self. I know this in the taste of your salt. It is yours and mine, too. It is as if someone reached inside me and took out one of my vital organs and put it in my hands and said, “Here, take care of this.” When I hold you, I am holding my own heart.