learning to see: part 2

I am attached to my plan. Clinging to my plan. Bear-hold, death-grip, white-knuckled holding on to this vision of me and the big blue sea. It's going to go my way. First there is struggle, damn this mama bear instinct, this ocean dream dissipating into the want of snuggling my baby on couch. Wrapping her in the security of her blue dragonfly quilt and settling in for another screening of ScoobyDoo meets The Wherewolf. Unt-uh. No. She is with her grandmother. What's more comforting than a Grammy? I push aside the hesitation left by my mother-in-law's question: "Should I take her to school?" asked while Amelia is vomiting.

First I dial Prema, where I know I'll find wisdom, another mama's opinion. Then Jess. Digits are flipping, numbers getting larger. If I spend too much time agonzing over this decision, the clock will make it for me. It will be too late to go.

"Come over," I tell Jess, still typing quotes from the Honda spokesman into my story as we talk. "Just come, and I'll decide while you're on the way. If it gets much later, it's going to be pointless." Wheels turning. Decision made.

Portland is all blossoms, pink and white and purple. Colors on the trees, on the ground; Camillas and daffodils and tulips. Colors that blur in streaks behind us as we climb into the green of the Coast Range, far-off gauzy ridgelines coming sharp into focus. I'm holding a spicy black bean burger in one hand and letting go of my guilt with the other. Before leaving town we stop at Scott's brother's to check on Amelia, and say hello to her visiting grandparents. The whole thing is awkward, Scott's mom and I trying too hard to be business as usual while his dad sits stone-faced on the couch. Amelia clings to my leg. "Pleeeeaaaaase mommy. Please can you change your plan? I want to go home. They said you'd come take me home."

We work it out, Amelia and me. I lay on my back, in the guest room, bed beneath me, Amelia on my belly. We talk, nose to nose, and I explain. "You're safe with Grammy, Sweetie. I would never leave you if it didn't feel ok to me. If you still feel sick tomorrow you can come home to mama's. We'll snuggle under blankets and watch movies and eat popsicles."

"Nooooooo. Today," she whines, turning to lay her check on my shoulder. "I want you today."

"I know sweetie. And, today Grammy is taking care of you. She'll take good care of you," my hand over her hair, to her back (not fever-warm.) "Today I need to do something for me. So I can be a better mom for you. I need to take care of me, to take care of you."

Maybe she understands. Maybe she doesn't. But she accepts it. And I let go of the judgments projected onto her grammy, but spoken from my head: "How selfish. How cold. Only a monster leaves her sick child so she can go play."

And in the car Jess reminds me what they think of me is none of my business. What I know about thier opinions of me is only in my head anyway.

Conversation carries us through the mountains, winding two-lanes through dense green to the open end of the sky. Don't notice the stereo, same CD repeating too low to hear. Don't notice the changes in the sky unill there, on the western slopes, it narrows into mist. Then drizzle all around.

to be continued ...