I went to L.A. and brought him a toy train on a string. I figured it would go over well, and it did. I wasn’t really surprised.
He is my brother’s son, after all.
He dragged the train around with him, and then he showed it to Rand.
I’m sorry for the lull in blogging, and the long delay in recounting the highlights of our Philly trip. I promise to get back to all of that tomorrow. Today, though, I wanted to tell you about something that happened during our weekend jaunt to California. Because I think the full force of it hasn’t hit me yet (pun not intended).
I often have odd reactions to things, both emotionally and physically. To me, they make sense, of course. But anyone else would think I was a bit strange.
I have slow reflexes, and my flight or fight response is clearly broken. I once saw a car careening towards my friend Lauren, and my response was to rush over to her, put my arms around her and … stand perfectly still. So, you know, she wouldn’t be alone when the car hit her. That was my way of protecting her, I guess. (Spoiler: we were fine.)
The thing about being married to a nine-year-old-boy who’s trapped in the body of a 34-year-old man is this: you are the only one that really knows him.
See, he’s done a pretty good job concealing the fact that, at heart, he’s still nine-years-old. He’s been hiding it from everyone for the past (counts on fingers …) TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. There are people who he sees, each and every day, who have no clue. To them, he’s Rand FancyPants-Does-Something-With-Computers-Maybe (?? note to self: find out what husband does for work).
I have a deadline tomorrow, and I’m caught between working on the project that’s due, freaking out that the project is due tomorrow, and then wasting time surfing the internet because I can’t seem to focus on the project that is OMG DUE TOMORROW.
So that’s why I didn’t really get a post up today. And lord knows if I’ll get one up tomorrow which, if you are just joining us, IS WHEN MY PROJECT IS DUE.
Clearly, I’m holding my sanity together by an even thinner thread than usual, folks. If you need any evidence of that, you need look no further than the note I wrote myself last night as I was falling asleep. The idea hit me, and I thought it was so brilliant, so incredible, that I just had to write it down.
I am climbing the stairs up and out of the subway, and before I even reach street level, I know: I’m lost.
There are only two subway lines in Philadelphia, and I’ve managed to get on the wrong one. There’s plenty of amusement to be found in the situation (seriously, how the hell did I even manage this?), but at the moment I feel only stress.
I look up and down Spring Garden, the street for which this subway stop gets its name. None of this looks even remotely familiar, though this feeling of being lost in a strange city is one I know all too well. I am distracted, and so when a cigarette-wielding young man asks me if I have a light, I only mumble no, and look past him for some landmark, something I will recognize.
“Hey,” he says, gesturing to my camera. “Will you take a picture of us?”
“Sure,” I say, without thinking twice.
This catches them off guard.
I suspect, if I didn’t have Rand to constantly remind me, I would easily forget how ridiculously, stupidly fortunate I am, and how charmed our lives are. He makes me aware of it all of the time. Not in a lecturing way, but in a genuinely grateful, almost surprised way.
“Holy crap,” he will say, in part to me and in part to himself, “we are really lucky.”
He will say this whenever we travel somewhere new, whenever we get an upgrade (or even when we don’t), whenever we cross paths with someone wonderful. He will say it to me when I run into his office and tell him that I love him, for no other reason that it’s been a while since I’ve said it.