I just wanted to appologize to you for yesterday.
On a day when we should have been celebrating your big 3-0 (30 months, that is) in grand style -- perhaps at a waterpark or at the very least, which was my solid intension, in the sweltering yoga studio with your very best friend having a kazoo parade for two -- we spent the day lost in the hills of Dutchess County, grooving to the Black-Eyed Peas as I prayed silently that the car didn't break down in the 96-degree heat leaving us stranded and melting.
The day had such promise even though it was shaded with gloom from the get-go.
We got out of the house before the sun filled it with hot, sticky badness, and headed off for some "Goodwill hunting." You needed t-shirts but we left with some things you wanted, too, such as a tiny-tot parisol and two "Band in a Bucket" playsets -- one for you and one for your best bud.
Wishing for rain and a parade to march through the dining room, you and I shared a meal of chicken nuggets and bottled water under the protective shelter of your new umbrella -- Superstitions be damned.
I called Ama to see if she was OK. You spoke to her for a little while and told her not to be sad. (In addition to your dad being away on this Father's Day, my dad was spending his day with Auntie Mimi, who had to be hospitalized that morning for a big-bad-bug that's wreaking havoc on her intensital tract. ... I'll leave it at that.) After you said goodbye, we headed off to our Sunday yoga class. You were excited.
Note to your older self: You might want to remind me to consult a MAP the next time we take an unfamiliar route.
I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought I knew the roads. (Thought being the problematic word here.) So for an hour we drove through some beautiful landscape; the kind of scenery that even makes atheists say it must be "God's Country."
You pointed out cows when you saw them and marveled at the big blue roof of a sky. You didn't even mind that there wasn't rain for your new "umbella."
The further I drove the more familiar things seemed, and yet it was all unfamiliar, too. I missed the turn we should have taken somewhere and found myself two states away from our appointed destination.
I phoned our friends to tell them of our dilemma and you listened calmly. You told me it was alright that I told them not to wait for us. You just demanded more "Peas in the Pod ... Hang Loo-ose!" before you, fell into a deep and binky-less sleep.
When you awoke, we were at a gas station in Litchfield, and I was asking a laughing man in a purple t-shirt if I head toward Sharon will I wind up in Gt. Barrington? Nope. When all the numbers were sorted out (44 to 41 to 23 to 7) and I had the "Ahhhhh ... Now-I-get-it" moment, your little voice came at me with a question, alerting me to your wakefulness.
"WHAT WAS THAT MAN TELLING YOU, MAMA?"
"He was telling me how to get there, baby."
"Oh. But they won't be there anymore-a."
You were right, of course. They weren't there. The guilt in me decided park the car and stretch our legs into the direction of the nearest toystore. I rationalized that we could get some little nothing to cheer up Mimi.
You played with Thomas the Train for an hour while I searched the shop for the perfect thing, which turned out to be a this crafty doo-dad I fully expected to send me over the edge. (As I can not craft my way out of a paper bag).
After we paid for the kit and you happily toted it out of the store (sans bag), who could blame you for not wanting to get back into the car?
Wasn't it lucky that we parked in a perfect place for lolling? Wasn't it fortunate that we had a little patch of grass and a big shade tree right in front of parking spot so we could work on our project for Mimi?
I mention this because had I not stopped and sat in that place, had I listened to my better judgement and not opened up that pink box with its bazillion tiny pieces, I might never have known of your uncanny ablity to sort among those tiny little beads, smaller than seasame seeds, and hand me the desired color, time after time, for nearly an hour.
On the way home, you pointed to every large brick building, asking if that's the "hos-si-spill" where Mimi is. "She's not very good, so we maked her a special! I wanna see her," you'd tell me.
You don't have any idea how lovely and amazing you are right now, my little bean, but rest assured that we do, and I can guarantee we'll never tire of reminding you.
Happy half-way birthday, little one. Thanks for being you.
THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...