The last time Django & I were at Poppa & Laura’s, Django’s experience was still limited to what he could sense from the womb. This trip he made his first naked wade into the Pacific Ocean, yanked on his first yellow jacaranda tree, pulled up all by himself on his first coffee table, and ate at his first really excellent strip mall restaurant.
Poppa & Laura were well-prepared for our visit. They’d gathered a big box of exciting toys, scrubbed the tapioca off a borrowed travel high chair and had a borrowed stroller at the ready, too. They were perfectly equipped for our impromptu trip to the beach, as well – grass mats, an umbrella, hats, sandals, sunscreen, and even quarters for the hungry Laguna Beach parking meters. I don’t think they quite anticipated our snottiness, related sleeplessness, and our need for driving directions to the nearest Kaiser, though through it all they were the most gracious of hosts.
I can’t say the same of myself as a guest… One night in particular, I paced the apartment from 1a- 5a like Goldilocks, moving from this chair, to that couch, then to the other recliner and back with Django attached to me at various angles and volumes of (un)rest. At that point, I could only hope Poppa & Laura remembered to pack noise cancellation headphones for themselves. Since I was precariously balanced at the edge of sanity at the time, myself, it could well be that each creak of the bedspring wasn’t really so shrill, each whir of the air conditioner didn’t sound like a jet engine, each consecutive wail of the unhappy baby wasn’t driving spikes of pain into their temples.
I tried not to pay attention to the time as it dragged on, but once an hour, every hour, the Christmas clock with the Snowcouple on it that Laura couldn't bear to put back in the Holiday box would tick and threaten to chime a cheery, O Tannenbaum, or some other incongruous tune. When Django wouldn't let me sit or recline, I'd inevitably find myself standing and rocking at the sliding glass door, staring out at the landscape in the moonshine. Earlier the warmth outside was thick and wet, more like Hawaii than I remembered Laguna Woods. Somewhere in my mind's eye I could still see Django on the veranda in Laura's arms giggling as she tickled little green jacaranda leaves against his skin, and startling as a hummingbird darted past…Those are the moments to savor, drop by drop.
The sleepless hours of fussing and squirming, moaning and complaining, were not so delicious. I certainly couldn’t and didn’t blame Django for his condition. He was trying so hard to get air through that little nose of his. If he found even a small breathing passageway for more than a minute or so he'd drop off to sleep, completely limp-limbed with exhaustion, only to wake with a shriek when it clogged again. And, yet, every time he woke and wailed I bumped up against my wit's end. I was trying really hard to keep Django from crying so as not to wake the Poppa & Laura or the neighbors, but I was also keenly aware of my urge to find a neighbor, any neighbor, who might already be awake, so I could hand the boy over and walk off into the sunrise alone…Those are the moments that leave ugly stretch marks on your soul.
Later that morning, Poppa & Laura took the Django for a long walk. He napped peacefully in the stroller for almost two hours. While they were gone, I took a shower and a number of very deep, though snivelly, breaths. The world looked completely different –and better – after that. And believe it or not, during the daylight hours, we were all able to enjoy our visit very much.
