FOUND!

A dim
twilit world slips by the train window.  
We are clipping along, destination New Orleans.  Our breakfast this morning in the dining car
remind me of The Lady Vanishes, a favorite Hitchcock – we were sat with a
Sociology professor from a small women’s college in Atlanta, and chatted
amicably, and wished each other well at the conclusion of the meal.  What if we peered into a room and saw her
unconscious?  What if she vanished
suddenly and I was the only one who missed her? 
Real life seldom offers such excitements, alas alas.

A man
a few seats ahead of us has not ceased speaking during the entire 12 hours we
have been on this train.  He knows
everything there is to know about any topic you would care to hit upon, and he
is patiently and determinedly sharing as much of his wisdom as possible with
his hapless seatmate before they part ways in the Crescent City.  There is a great deal left to discuss, but he
has covered a remarkable amount of ground thus far, to include: necessary
regular car repairs, menopause, appropriate male behaviors, the magic of shaman
tools (necessarily diminished while trapped in museum cases,) how to have a
credit card late fee removed, the usefulness of cell phones, and women’s
empowerment.  I’m just waiting for him to
elaborate on government conspiracies and UFO cover-ups.  It’s only a matter of time.

On
this ride I have just finished devouring Twilight, the most horrifically
written novel that I have ever not been able to put down (with the possible
exception of The Da Vinci Code.) 
Thinking about Stephanie Meyer made me wonder, as I often do, as many
people often do – How do people catch a break? 
Bless her, she didn’t include a single original word or idea in that
book, and she’s uber famous and super rich and can write for a living her whole
life if she likes.  And yet the
sparklingly original and fantastic screenplay that I just read a couple of days
ago will likely never see the light of day. 
This isn’t a rant, just a gentle, resigned question to the heavens.  Of late as I ponder my future, I have been
sending lots of rhetorical musings heavenward. 
I don’t expect any godly replies.

It is
warm on this train, but ever so much more comfortable than a plane ride would
be, and we both spent the bulk of the ride stretched out and sleeping in the
roomy coach seats.  A young army man
sprawled across from us for the bulk of the ride, sleeping well into the 2:00
pm
hour.  Others have come and gone, will
come and go.  There is nothing like a
train.

I
struggle to put thoughts to paper as I listen to our car-mate drone on and on
to his wife on the phone – a detailed list of everything he has eaten today.  He has one of those implacable, slow drawls
that fills every corner of the conversation. 
He yields no ground.  He has few
dialogues, I imagine.  I don’t mind him
particularly, but I can clearly hear him, and his mundanities crowd out my Deep
Thoughts On Life While Staring Out The Window Of A Train.  He hangs up his cell phone (Awesome!  And Convenient!) and asks his longsuffering
companion (a stranger at the beginning of this ride, but I imagine now
considered a forever friend) – Hey, did I tell you the story about . . . ?

We
left Jack behind, our first trip together without him, and I am glad that we
have just spent an eternity trapped in a train car with nothing to do.  I have not napped so hard or so well since my
son was born, and I am glad that I do not feel the impetus to do anything more
than this.  Since I’ve finished my trashy
romance novel, however, I will definitely have to buy something to read on the
way back up.  Not the sequel – if I read
the words “marble skin” or “taut chest muscles” or “smoldering topaz eyes” one
more time in the next month I think my brain will explode.

Tonight
we will get room service and relax in the hotel.  Tomorrow, he will present his paper at a
conference and I will lounge and try to train myself to forget about Jack,
forget to check for him every five minutes.

****
The Return ****

A
scant 48 hours later, we are back on the train, heading north.  It was a whirlwind long weekend away, but a
needed one.  I recommend such an escape
to any new parents at the 8-9 month mark. 
We miss the baby, but I had missed my pre-parental self for months, and
it was nice to say hello to her again.

Motherhood,
among myriad other things, is clockwatching. 
Even in the many, many hours of the day that I spend away from our wee
on, my eyes are ever on the clock.  The
schedule we’ve put him on is a boon, and although some days it feels like
shackles it is actually very freeing to have a happy, well adjusted baby.  Much more freeing than having a wild
unpredictable 8 month old would be, even if we could liberate ourselves from
having to plan around strict nap and meal times.  My point here is that for the first time
since April 25, I was able to wander around a town with nothing on my person –
no bags, no purse, no backpack or diaper bag or burp rag or extra outfit or
bottle or pump or what have you – and no clocks.  I have had a wildly unstructured couple of
days and I feel fabulously rested.  The
relentless toil of caring for our son is about to start again, and I am
refreshed and ready to dive back in.

It is
relentless, and it is a lot of toiling, but it is also super fantastic and
rewarding, and I am so happy to be heading back in Jack’s direction.  Baby giggles, comin’ up.  He will be asleep by the time we arrive, so
no baby cheek nibbling will actually occur until tomorrow, but I will feast my
eyes on his portly little frog body and welcome his smiley wakeup on the
morrow.  He’s a delight, through and
through, and to toil for his sake is a joy.

Years
ago, right before Patrick and I moved to North Carolina, I had a job as an outdoor
adventure leader for middle school kids, out in California.  I drove a 12 passenger van with a trailer all
up and down the state, checking out Yosemite National Park, Bodhi Ghost Town, Lake Tahoe, Mono Lake, Muir Woods, and downtown San Francisco.  I had a dozen or so kids and their
teacher.  I should write down those
experiences.  Anyway, though, after my 2
month stint out there was over, I had 24 hours to kill in San Francisco by myself before my flight home.  I booked a room in a hostel, strapped on my
running shoes, and jogged all over the city. 
I jogged for hours.  This is what
I do when I travel – I roam around, carrying my I.D. and maybe a credit card or
twenty bucks and that’s it.  Walk slowly,
and remain open to interactions with passersby. 
Things happen.

Walking
through NOLA reminded me of that day in San Francisco.  Before I was married, before I was a
mother.  I was 26?  I think?