Mercy

Airline travel makes refugees of all of us. We obey the rules and shuffle through the lines, shoeless and ignoble. Those of us who travel a lot have systems designed to make us better and more efficient than our stocking-footed fellows, but we're all the same — pilgrims and potential terrorists just trying to get home. Friday night, I arrived early at JFK for my delayed flight, so I wasn't in my usual very-important-businessperson rush. I moved slowly enough to notice the family in front of me, preparing to go through the first of several security checks. A woman in her mid-to-late 40s was tenderly arranging the parcels and persons of two older people — her parents — in the exact same way we'd pack small children off to school.

"Dad, your glasses are falling out of your pocket. There. No, see, there? There you go. Mom, go ahead and untie your shoes because you're going to have to take them off? And keep your boarding passes and your drivers' licenses out, okay?"

As her parents walked away from her through the security line she couldn't cross, the middle-aged daughter sheep-dogged the nylon rope, watching them, waving. I struck up a conversation and found out they're from Buena Vista, Colorado, and they don't travel much anymore except once a year to see their daughter in New York and their granddaughter in Vermont. As we snaked through the long security line, the daughter watched and waved, like she was sending her parents off to kindergarten.

The older couple was flummoxed by the lines and stern directions at the x-ray scan. SHOES OFF. SHOES DIRECTLY ON THE BELT. ELECTRONICS IN A BIN. COAT OFF. BOARDING PASS OUT. "Do I need to take my sweater off? Do I put it in a bin?" As I answered their questions, I could see the daughter far away against the nylon rope. They waved. I waved. She waved back.

I went first, efficiently, but hung back to see how they were doing. The man limped through first, one leg dragging from a bum hip, and I said, "Do you need anything?"

"Oh no, dear, you go on. Have a safe trip," he said.

They carefully gathered their shoes and sweaters and parcels, unaware of the line they were holding up behind them. I could see their daughter lingering, small beyond the security glass and the ropes and the other ropes, clutching her hands, straining to see her mom and dad.

I wanted to follow them to their gate, but I didn't. I thought, If they need help, someone will notice. Flying reminds us that we are all here at the mercy of each other.

Broccoli Car

Stage One: Man, it smells musty in here. I must have spilled water on the floormat. Need to air the car out.Stage Two: What IS that smell? That's not good. Did I leave a dirty diaper in the diaper bag in the trunk? Stage Three: OMG, where is the dead mouse? I don't see it but I know — for sure — something died in here. Where is it -- WAIT A SECOND... Stage Four: Oh. A container of uneaten broccoli from Milo's lunch from last week. Egghcckk.

Broccoli Car.

When You Ignore Your Children

For much of the day, Milo pushed a baby ("My baby!") around in a shopping cart ("I go byebye with baby, k?"), while wearing sunglasses and a beaded necklace. Ultimately, he decided baby needed one of the dee-luxe shopping carts with a front-facing seat/car, so he put a small chair in front of the shopping cart to push around. Oh, and for most of this, he had a giant eraser of Lucy's tucked between his chin and shoulder: his phone, which he was using to talk to Honour and Granny. Meanwhile, Lucy took her dolls, Kit and Ruby, on vacation on a plane, with many trunks and bags. As best I could tell by listening in, they were accompanied and bossed around by someone with an English accent (governess?), who kept saying imperiously that certain things "wouldn't do."

Oh, and when I pulled up in the driveway, she was putting on some kind of musical that involved choreography and an umbrella.

Milo Knows My Name

If I ask him my name, he says, "Mommy," but sometimes he says "Cupcake" — maybe because Kate sounds like cake which he always calls cupcake? And cupcakes are awesome. If you ask him his name, he will say "Mino" or "cracker." (At which point I tell him, "Baby, you just look like a cracker, but you are really quite diverse.")

He knows the names of his teachers. He talks almost constantly. Today at Central Market, he lost his balloon and said to it, "Uh oh, balloon go bye bye. Bye, balloon, byeeee." He kept pointing it out to me: "Balloon up there? Balloon go bye bye?" And then when we left the store, long after that balloon was out of sight, he said, "Bye, balloon."

S.M.A.R.T.

Happy Anniversary to Me

One year ago today, I had a little ceremony. I sat down at my desk, a desk as thrillingly blank and organized as any desk of mine has ever been. My vintage cup steamed with hot coffee from my own maker. My black-and-white composition notebook was full of ambitious to-dos which I'd filled out with my then-favorite pen. I stood, armed with school supplies, on the precipice of something of wonderful and terrifying. I dove...

I landed just fine. I've been busier than I ever imagined — largely thanks to one amazing long-term client, I am a well-kept woman (do what you will with the analogy that begs to be here). And there's an abundance of work beyond that if I want it.

The moral of this story: be brave and you will be glad.

What To Do

My brave friend April has been on a crazy ride the last 13 days (really, her whole life — so much more than we've all known) and while we who love her have tried to accompany her on the journey, she's been on her own. With a broken-ass ticker and some very tired lungs. What to do what to do what to do. I would stand in her room and sing camp songs until I lost my voice if I thought it would do any good or the hospital would let me. I would light a lantern and hold it up so she can find her way to peace or war or whatever combination serves her. There is so much I would do. And so little I can.

So tomorrow we do what we can again. Coffee and laughter and holding hands.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

You know when you look at the J. Crew catalog and think, "That's cute and all, but who the hell ever wears a swimsuit and a sweater at the same time? Who are these people?" Well, these people are summer people — cool in every sense of the word (and also they are models, but nevermind that). For one glorious week, we were summer people. Courtesy of Andy and Megan, we had the pleasure of being those (slightly less gorgeous) sweater-and-swimsuit-lakeside types in one of the prettiest place I've ever seen, in the north woods of Minnesota.

Even with the 12-hour cholera that swept through our bunch (Glendaloch's revenge), we were like a postcard. Wish we were there...

I Need Some April Weather

Whenever my friend April sees me (or anyone she loves), she grins, throws her arms open, cocks her head to the side and offers herself. No one is ever happier to see me: I am the most special person on earth. And despite my perfect specialness in that first moment (or any moment she listens to me), I know there are dozens of people she makes feel that same way. It's easy to forget how special April is because she is so damn busy making you feel special. So when I went to see her in the hospital today, where she lay intubated and small and sick, and instead of her usual spectacular greeting, I received just a squeeze of my hand and quiet tears, her eyes desperate, I worried.

Once they took the vent tube out, she was better: charming the staff, wanting to laugh a little, savoring her breaths. But then her blood pressure started dropping again, putting her back into the same cycle that had landed her in ICU in the first place. The rest of the day was up and down, and she withdrew to the quiet place we go when we are deeply tired and suffering.

So. Tomorrow! Tomorrow, I am aiming for something even a little more like my usual greeting. A smile, a hug, a bit of the special she reflects. We could all use some beautiful April weather.