[Somehow, the topic of New York City comes up...]

Erin: “A., do you know anything about New York City?”

A: “Yes.”

Erin (surprised): “You do? What’s that?”

A: “A. lives in New York City, where he has cats.”

(I don’t believe A. has ever been to NYC, nor does he have cats.)

[Later, after some drawing...]

A: “Look, Erin! Three candles on table!”

A: “Look, Erin! Smoke coming out of a smokestack!”

[Later, A. draws a train and then adds three lines above the train...]

A: “These indicate that the bell is ringing.”

It’s not that he doesn’t like babies. He just doesn’t have much experience with them, and therefore resists holding them. To him, they seem fragile and unpredictable. When babies become toddlers, he becomes the “fun one,” the jungle gym as it were. He’ll let S. climb all over him, and it’s pretty adorable.

Babies, though, he usually observes from a distance.

The other night, the Kings were over for dinner and the premier of American Idol, and I wanted Jesse to hold Baby D, the cuddliest, sweetest little boy there ever was. I figured, if we’re going to have kids in the next decade or so (don’t hold your breath), we should start getting Jesse a little more used to the “under-three” variety of children.

So, though he protested a bit (not as much as I expected, mind you), Jesse agreed to hold Baby D for a while but made me promise to take him back as soon as the baby started crying, which Jesse was convinced would happen before too long.

Two minutes later, we look over and see this:

The baby fell asleep! In no time flat! No crying, no fussing, no squirming. How many times has this child fallen asleep in my lap? Zero. Jesse has him for a few minutes–out. We all laughed.

The two of them stayed that way the rest of the episode. It was so freaking adorable, I could hardly stand it. Baby D really is the cuddliest baby ever.

A couple of middle-aged women cooed over a two-year-old girl with a sippy cup. They launched into a discussion about their kids and grandkids, and one of the women had a rather fascinating story about having her first and only child, how she wasn’t supposed to have kids, the physical difficulties she endured during the pregnancy. She admitted to the other woman that she would have to wait a few more years before she’d get grandchildren, as she’d had her daughter “late in the game.”

Then she said, “I didn’t have my baby until I was twenty-nine.”

…

If it had been possible for me to dissolve into my chair, I would have.

Sigh.

A. has named both the tow truck and the cars (though all cars have the same name). The names mostly–well, you’ll see in a minute–come from the movie Cars. I’ve never seen the movie or its sequel, and I don’t know if A. has either, though he does have the book.

Today, I asked A. what the tow truck’s name was.

“Mater,” he answered.

If you’re not familiar with Pixar’s Cars and its horribly reviewed sequel Cars 2, here is a picture of the character Mater:

After establishing the tow truck’s name, I asked A. what the cars were named.

“Steve McQueen,” he said.

He had no idea why I found that hilarious.

Here is a picture of the Cars character, Lightning McQueen:

And here is Steve McQueen, the actor:

The Impossible Miss Z

Oh.

Sad.

But, there is time off on the other side of that, and that time off includes a trip to visit Simona in Atlanta and it also involves time to tackle the book (once again) and clean my house (really, really clean it). Oh, and Christmas, my favorite time ever.

So, to celebrate those things, last night Jesse and I went to dinner at a local Tex-Mex place we love. I ate way too many chips and then way too much dinner and after dinner the wait staff had to roll us out the doors. (Not really, but wouldn’t that make a funny sight?)

The topic of our dinner conversation: following your dreams. It was a lovely, but at times difficult, conversation.

This morning, the temperature outside was freezing. Actually, below freezing, to be accurate. I bundled up in my purple scarf and sweater boots and watched A., who now answers everything with “Cause why not?” I don’t know where that came from, or what precisely it means, and I’m not sure he’s clear on that either.

Example dialogue:

“A., let’s put your shoes back on.”

“Cause why not?”

“Yes, exactly, why not.”

He is now speaking in remarkably full sentences, regularly proclaiming his love for both milk and juice. (Erin: “I like milk.” A.: “I like milk. I love milk. I love juice. Yes.”)

It’s nice to know that even though the semester is wrapping up and in about a month I’ll get a whole new batch of students, some things remain constant, with only progress and new vocabulary to adjust to.

• Graded the last ten essay exams (after fifteen last night, and fifty earlier this week).
• Taught two classes (returned said exams).
• Entertained M. and A. on campus while their parents were in meetings. I was constantly afraid someone was going to slam into them with a bicycle. There are lots of people riding bikes and skateboarding on campus, weaving in and out of people-traffic, and I’ve pretty much accepted the fact that I will probably one day be tragically injured by someone running into me with their bike (probably while the biker was sending a text). So, while the kids and I walked around campus I was on constant watch for any bike-riders in our vicinity.
• Bought groceries.
• Went to the bank.
• Updated my “grade book” (Excel file) with quiz, journal, and exam grades.
• Prepared the first essay assignment handout.

I’ve got stuff to make for dinner tonight. But I kind of just want to eat chips and salsa and then have chocolate chip cookies. If ever I were to get away with that, it would be a Friday, right?

Happy weekend.

If you are between the ages of five and twenty-one, or if you have come into contact with a person between the ages of five and twenty-one, or if you have shopped in an establishment catering to people between the ages of five and twenty-one, or if you have shopped in an establishment that caters to the parents of people between the ages of five and twenty-one, then you’ve probably seen Silly Bandz.

(If, somehow, you’ve managed to stay insulated from the craze, allow me to ruin it for you: They’re rubber bands, shaped like things. You wear them on your wrist, or perhaps your ankle, depending, of course, on your dedication level and the size of said ankle. You collect and then trade them with your friends. They are status symbols, they are fads, they are cheaply made and cheaply sold.)

A few weeks ago, I watched a nine-year-old while her father was out, and over a dinner of pizza and Jones soda, she educated me on the finer details of Silly Bandz—their acquisition and trading, their variations (you can also find Zany Bandz, Crazy Bandz, Wacky Ringz, and so on), and their likely trajectory (she estimates they’ll be around at least another couple years). We speculated on how they might be manufactured, what happens to the excess material from their manufacture, and how we might break into the market (there are, as far as we know, no Silly Bandz in the shape of the International Space Station).

She was kind enough to get me started on my very own collection, generously donating the bands below. I am now cooler than I was before, when I had no Silly Bandz, not even knock-offs. Don’t be jeal.

Rather impressive, isn't it?

Took lots of cold medicine.

Taught two classes (which were populated by surprisingly brilliant people who blew me away).

Watched A. and M. on campus while their parents attended a faculty meeting (A. loves clocks and loves pointing them out. The problem is, he can’t really do consonant blends yet, so the “l” sound gets dropped. So, you can imagine my mild horror as we walked to the bookstore and then the library, past the giant clock tower twice, while A. pointed and hollered his version of “Clock! Clock! Big clock!” Oh, my.)

Dropped Gracie off at the vet this morning and picked her up this afternoon. She’s got a bladder stone. Yay.

Fought ridiculous traffic, which had resulted from a major wreck and an “All traffic must exit” sign that had been mistakenly left out.

Got home, realized my plans to attend the department welcome back party were foiled (there was absolutely no way I’d make it there on time with the traffic the way it was—and I couldn’t have stayed in town to wait it out because I had Gracie with me). Was bummed. (This was my night to make a smashing impression!)

Gave Gracie a bath because she had peed at the vet’s office and then sat in it. (Ugh.)

Hello, Friday. Thank Heavens it’s the weekend…

Tuesday night, the night before we were to leave, I was still vacillating—what to do? Go? Stay? What if I go and I get worse? What if I stay and get better? I had a prescription of amoxicillin just in case, but it wasn’t very strong. My sleep that night was fitful. My alarm was set for 3:00 a.m.

I woke up at 2:30 and went to the bathroom and threw up. At 3:00, my godsister called and said she was worried I shouldn’t go, was worried that the illness was a sign that I wasn’t supposed to be on this trip. I didn’t know if I agreed. But, as much as I hate it, I do have a bit of a superstitious streak, and I thought immediately of all the stories about people who should have been on the plane that crashed but overslept, that kind of thing. Stories about mining disasters, about men who survived because they just happened to be hungover that morning and stayed home.

Jesse woke up, and I just sat on the couch, half dressed and wet from the shower I’d somehow managed to take, crying, not at all sure what I should do, not wanting to stay, but not wanting to go either. I was so weak I could barely stand.

He said, well, let’s get you to the church. (Where we were meeting the rest of the team.) If you feel too bad there, I’ll bring you back home. If not, go to Raleigh. If you feel too bad there, I’ll come pick you up. If not, go to DC. If you feel too bad there, we’ll get you on a plane home. As long as you’re in the States, there’s time to turn back.

I nodded, pitifully, and he helped me put on clothes, and he put my things in his car, and he drove me to the church parking lot, where I cried some more, curled up in the front passenger seat of his car. By the time the van showed up, I was feeling a little better, the nausea not as strong as it had been, and I got in the van (front seat, so I could keep my eyes on the horizon) and went to Raleigh.

And at Raleigh I felt better, so I went to DC. And then we had a nine-hour layover. At lunch, I took a Mucinex and started to feel much better. Ah, I thought, I’m so glad I came, I’m getting better.

Then, while waiting at the gate, I started to feel very hot. I was flushed, my neck and face a brilliant shade of strawberry. I felt kind of prickly.

This whole time, I had been telling myself, well at least I don’t have a fever. If I had a fever, I’d know I should really stay.

I’d packed a thermometer, but it was in my checked luggage. No one else had one. Some of them went to hunt for one in the airport shops, but they were unsuccessful. I was right back where I’d been that morning. What to do? What was the right answer? Was this some kind of sign? Or was this something I needed to persevere through? It was agonizing.

Then Christie, who used to work at a hospital, pointed out that I didn’t feel that hot to the touch and that the flushing looked more like an allergy than a fever. I realized the Mucinex had been one of those time-released things and called my doctor’s office to get a nurse’s opinion. They called back later and said they’d had people with a similar reaction to Mucinex and that it would in all likelihood go away on its own.

That gave me a bit of relief, but I still had a decision to make. Without the Mucinex as an option, I would have all the congestion and stuffiness to deal with, and I was facing a fifteen-hour flight, an overnight stay in Ethiopia, another three-hour flight, a six-hour bus drive through Rwanda, an overnight stay in Rwanda (at a guest house I knew offered fairly rough accommodations), and then a week of go-go-go in Congo, followed by another several days of travel. But. I’d been planning and preparing for this for months, and there was all that money spent, and I really thought I was on the upswing, that if I could just sleep through the flights then I’d more than likely recover quickly, and if not I always had the antibiotics.

I was kind of a mess. I went to the bathroom and just sat in one of the stalls, the only place I could come up with where I could be alone. I just sat there and cried and prayed for the right answer. Then I realized: there was no right answer. I felt calm, almost instantly. There was no right answer. I could stay. Or I could go. It was just a choice. So, I thought, all right, I have a decision to make. Well, what’s the better story? Going is the better story. Going and being sick was a better story than staying. So, I went to the sinks and washed my face and took some deep breaths and went back to the gate. I was going.

Just before I boarded the plane (literally, I was two or three people from the door of the plane), airport security pushed their way through the line and stopped the man in front of me, pulling him out of the line and asking for his identification.

My immediate thought was: Oh, crap! A terrorist! I wasn’t supposed to go! I told myself I was being ridiculous, and boarded the plane. I sat down, started arranging my stuff, pulling out my sleep mask and earphones, getting a book within easy reach. Maybe he was a terrorist, but the security guys have him now, and he’s not on the plane. Well, then who walks right onto the plane and past me toward the back? I started texting Jesse, telling him how much I love him, just in case the plane is going to crash (I don’t mention the man in any of my texts). Then, they closed up the plane and we took off.

Well, you know the end of the story. We didn’t crash. I didn’t die. In fact, I was sick right up until we got into Congo, and the first day we were there I felt remarkably, unexplainably better. No need for the antibiotics. This is all the more amazing because of what happened on our flight to Ethiopia. See, we did have a sort-of terrorist on board, but it wasn’t the man.

It was a little girl, elementary-school-aged. Who screamed at the top of her lungs, for nearly fifteen hours straight. That sleep I wanted to get? The sleep I was sure would aid my recovery? Nope. Didn’t happen.

I could try and describe it, or I can just show you.