Double vision

Dear Meishka,

Daddy left early this morning (well, at 7am to be precise--not early at home but practically madrugada on a Spanish eat-dinner-at-11pm-schedule). He's going to the Netherlands to show his friend Bill the earth, water, and people he lived on, "under" (Lelystad stands on land reclaimed from the sea), and amongst when they parted ways as 19-year-old boys for two years a decade ago.

That meant that I woke up with you in our new bed. No more inescapable rolling to the center of a frame-broken, screaming springs pile of wood and padding. Thanks to your grandparents and IKEA, we also have a lovely tent of white gauze hung over us. According to your friend "Ally," whom you called by name several times yesterday, it makes our cozy space fit for a princess, which is the highest compliment a five-year-old girl can bestow--a fact which will too soon be obvious to you.

The tent, which transforms our bed into an ethereal fort, gives me a reason to rejoice in what was before a source of great annoyance and beffudlement: no screens on the windows in our house, plenty of mosquitos in the back yard, and a lack of air conditioning. But now with bird songs, ruffling leaves, and the occasional lazy conversation floating through our open bedroom window and us enclosed safely in a beautifully lit cacoon, I couldn't be more content.

Watching you peacefully sleep it's hard to imagine your non-stop business during the day. Oh, how you want to be able to walk! You know exactly which direction you want to go and whose hand and how many you want to hold on the way. You are beginning to exert your will in ways that can frustrate me in the moment but delight me in retrospect for the smart already opinionated little person you're becoming.

I experience such double vision no more strongly than when we ride the Metro together. Strung with diaper bag and saddled with stroller, Daddy has his hands full on these rides. You're stuck with me and the door shuts quickly behind us. We squeeze into a seat between two strangers, trying to keep your feet off of their clothes. There is a 10-second lull in which you adjust to your surroundings. Then you want out. And you arch and wriggle until you are out. Next you're glued to whoever is sitting next to us. You grab the zippers of her purse. You touch the face of his watch. You try to open her bag. You reach for his book. You want to suck on her necklace. I count the stops till we're free and try to occupy you with all my tricks in rapid succession--cookies, keys, metro pass, map, finger games, cookies. Those work for about a minute if I'm lucky. You then try to walk to the center pole amid crowded passengers, soon to move past you. I pull you back. You make heard your displeasure. More neighbor groping. Finally, a groomed recorded female voice delivers the blessed words: "Próxima parada: Atocha Renfe." Our stop approaching. I stand up, sling you tight, and get ready to exit.

But then, once you're asleep on the more peaceful, less crowded, longer train ride home or in a lovely bed next to me, I remember a different scene. The Metro door closes and within seconds some kind soul has offered us their seat. This has happened every single time but one. You immediately make eye contact with an elderly woman sitting next to you. You smile and say "hi." She might not understand at first, but she is brightened by your sentiment and eventually returns an "hola." You eagerly clasp her gnarled finger in your soft, small hand and her face lights up even more. She calls you a muñecita and preciosa and can't take her eyes of you. You eventually break down all of the invisible barriers dividing the passengers in the car into individual cells. Even the annoyed looking teenage boy across the aisle starts to smile at you. And the busy businessman offers you the button on his coat. Sometimes people instinctively reach out to hold you and you let them. You continue giving your "hi"s to everyone within earshot. By the time we leave, you've transformed a bunch of strangers avoiding eye contact with each other into a car full of friendly fellow travelers, warm and interactive. You've awakened them from their habitual slumber and dreary boredom. If only for a moment.

Such is your blessing. And though it occasionally feels like my curse, it's only because I'm not always using the right pair of eyes.

I love you, busy baby.

Mama