St. Louis to D.C.
Wednesday, 11:30 a.m.
Write before I read the other blog posts. This is rule number one. Write when the child in your lap sleeps. This is rule number two. Rule number three is the most important, write everyday, no matter what.
With four-month-old Zadie asleep in my lap on the Boppy, her mouth gently using me as a human pacifier I start one of the two paperback books I brought for our three day journey: “Paula,” by Isabelle Allende. I literally tore, the second book, “The Writing Life,” out of an Annie Dillard reader when packing 1450 pounds of personal belongings in Bogota before we left. I like to travel light and sadly that never seems to work out. We just checked nine bags and two car seats in St. Louis which we will have to pick up in Frankfurt and put in lockers while we overnight to rest and stroll the Christmas market after the transatlantic flight.
Mary and I pinky swear that next time we travel, everyone gets a backpack, nothing more. With carry-ons and babies dangling from our bodies we have a total of 15 appendages–eight of which weigh 50 lbs.
This move to Kazakhstan has been in the works for a year. This family has been brewing for three years, and for five years I promised myself the sabbatical that comes to an end this Monday.
Blessed with the fertility of a Meyer, my mom has nine grand kids, I was able to get pregnant quickly and string two maternity leaves onto either end of my year off. Two kids nursing under two meant I could donate surplus milk to babies in a Colombian Nicu, and to two daring breast-is-best mothers I found in St. Louis on the Human Milk 4 Human Mothers Facebook page that links donors with donees. I plan to head up the exchange in Kazakhstan.
(Time to feed. More on the next flight).
D.C. to Frankfurt
Wednesday, 18:55 p.m.
The dinner service is over, the lights are out and Zadie is asleep. She is down again, on the ever present Boppy in my lap. Mary is wearing Santi at the back of the plane in the galley–I can hear her shushing him from my seat in row 40. The trapped air on this mile long 777 has just cooled off after that steamy entrance where everyone was jostling for overhead space. My hands smell like French fries. Looking around I see young children and grandparents alike with headphones on watching everything from Frozen to House of Cards. We have six hours and 34 minutes left to fly, I might as well settle in to my book.
The oddest moments of the D.C. to Frankfurt flight have been when I had to front carry both babies–Santi on my chest and Zadie in my hands as Mary loaded luggage or went to the bathroom. I looked like a woman who desperately needed a hand and someone always stepped in to give it.
Santi turns two on Saturday, the day we land. He has gotten so old so quickly, able to hustle up and down the plane aisles without losing his balance, comprehending Mary’s instructions in English as easily as mine in Spanish, outgrowing his footy pajamas. He is ready for pre-school, Russian, and a ton of play dates. The boy needs more stimulation than his team of female care providers offers.
Zadie just hit four months. On track, she rolls from front to back, giggles, and wants to be worn facing out. She has patiently waited her turn to be the main gig, sharing center stage with Santi, that will change when he goes to school and we can both focus more on her.
I am in culture shock having said good-bye to our nanny–I am yet to parent without one and am dreading the reduction in free time that comes with this territory. Another big change is going back to work on Monday, I still can’t imagine: trekking through the snow in zero degree weather with chains on my boots; fully outfitted in my work costume with heels, make up, and jewelry for the office, and becoming a parent who just sees her kids during the bookends of her days and weeks. Mary and Zadie will be tackling the inevitable task of taking a bottle while I pump for my daughter at the office. All of these changes come on Monday. Today is Thursday, we will land in Frankfurt and live 1000 lives before that day comes.
Frankfurt
Thursday, 21:39 p.m.
Thursday disappeared like smoke rising from the Christmas market stalls in downtown Frankfurt. While we met plenty of older women happy to hold a baby, carry a bag, or even throw out a diaper the Scrooges of today’s adventure were the airport and airline employees. Mary walked up to the TSA official in STL when we started the journey with Santi arching back off her chest, a killer heavy backpack with two computers weighing her down, and a biker bag for her purse filled to the brim. She juggled this and that to pull out our four passports and boarding passes. She barely held them in her hand without dropping them when the TSA official, with two free hands, sitting down, with nothing to do, and no none in line behind us looked at her juggling and extra 80 pounds of baby and gear and said, “Can you please place each boarding pass in the corresponding passport.” Mary responded dryly, “Sure, not a problem,” and dumped everything on the ground.
Next, we boarded the flight from St. Louis to D.C. It was the size of a toy plane, I think we actually had to shrink to fit inside of it. There were only three seats across the aisle, two on one side and one on the other. The four of us had two seats for this flight. We jammed our selves into our narrow row, stuffed crayons, baby books, and wipes in the seat back pockets, hung Zadie’s black and white horse for eye stimulation, kicked our oversized carry-ons under the seat and had just exhaled when the flight attendant shimmied down the aisle to tell us we couldn’t sit together, “One of you is going to have to move. If there is an accident these rows only have three oxygen masks.” Mary jokingly responded, “If we crash, I will just get up and move.” He didn’t laugh under his breath we heard him say, “By then it will be too late.” We dug out half of our gear, moved it ten rows up and played baby shuffle the entire flight, knocking into the elbow or knee of every person between 3C and 12 A.
Finally, on the D.C. to Frankfurt flight the whole squad of United flight attendants were foul. Mary was rocking Zadie to sleep with Santi asleep across the two seats next to her when they announced it was time to prepare for landing which includes lifting the tray table and putting your seat back upright. Mary’s seatback was back and a tray table was still croweded with Santi’s water, an extra breakfast meal, and crayons. The flight attendant, without warning, ejected her seat upright throwing Mary’s head into the seat in front of her, she almost dropped Zadie who was now awake. Then the flight attendant glanced at the still full tray table and heaved a disapproving and perfectly audible, “ugghhh,” and promptly dumped everything on the table into the garbage. When it came time to exit the plane, we were inevitably the dead last, by at least ten minutes. The whole crew stood watching us pick up every sweater, glove, sock, and water bottle in their tightly buttoned navy blue uniforms and even said out loud, “Hurry up!” Lady, we couldn’t hurry if we tried. I should have asked her to change Zadie’s poopy diaper.
Don’t worry, we didn’t let that get us down, we had to keep our spirits animated to wrestle nine 50lb checked bags and two car seats onto the three rolling carts we rented at baggage pick up and wheel them to the baggage check while not bruising the children attached to our torsos. Mary pushed two full carts while I pushed one and we walked by 100s of people who looked, then stared, and didn’t offer to help—until a kind man/thief offered to assist Mary with her second cart. Even though we quickly realized his primary motivation was to get the three Euro from returning the carts, we were both found the humor in the theifs condemnation when he paused, before attempting to rob us, to suggest we put Santi’s winter coat on. Santi looked cold to the half-helpful, half-shady man.
Having dumped our luggage, we got in a cab and were next reprimanded by a German taxi driver for taking Zadie out of her Moby to feed her. He warned in a thick accent, “Traffic is bad, what if I have to stop fast, we only have ten minutes, please keep her strapped to your chest.”
By the third time an anonymous German stopped us on the walking street to pull Santi’s sweatpants over his exposed calves, we began to worry if we should turn the kids into Germany’s Child Protective Services and retire as parents.
We made our way to the Christmas market, treated ourselves to hot wine, let the little munchkins sleep on our chests, and waited to check into our hotel room. Next stop Almaty.
Belonging Matters 