When I was small and my dad would go away on business trips, I would ask him to pack me up and put me in his suitcase so that I could go too.
Looks like the cats have the same idea.
Other than a few odds and ends, we're packed and ready to hit the road (sky!) tomorrow bright and early.
This will be the first flight with a (semi) potty trained little one (eek) and the first trip where I might expect a few moments of peace because Stella has surpassed that magical two-year-old milestone and can now watch TV (hooray!).
Stella is obsessed with Olivia (Eee-me-ia) and will sit slack-jawed in front of the iPad basking in all the animated piggy glory. I'm not too sad about this fact.
24 hour flights with a kid who doesn't sleep? Passssha! Whateves. Give me what you've got, air travel, Oh yeah, me and Eee-me-ia, we've got this.
I was feeling pretty foul today; raging at the uncertainty and tired of the insomnia, and weary from living in a state of readiness unknowing when we'll get the command, leap over borders and go. There are piles of things, detritus from my closet of doom littering the wave lines of my floors. Things need sorting and putting away. Things need selling. Things need purging.
And suitcases need packing. Stella and I have decided to take our vacation, contract or no, move or no, we're going. Now, visas needed transferring from one passport to another. A trip to the airport immigration office slated to eat up our entire afternoon.
Yet. My girl who doesn't sleep, she put her head down on her Papi's pillow and closed her eyes. I left the piles to be piles, trusting that she'd wake in time for us to make it to the visa office. I laid down next to her, and closed my eyes too. This, her first nap with her face squished into a pillow, was to be savoured.
She stayed that way, soundly sleeping for two hours. And I did too.
We almost missed the immigration office. But we didn't. We got to the airport and everything worked out. Everything will be fine. People always say that in crisis, in the face of tears and stress. You never believe them, do you.
But then it is. And you are. And you do.
Oh did it ever bucket down today. I'm not sure if this is the official start of the rainy season, or just a preview, but the point is being made clear. Whatever it is, its rainy.
Hydrangias and the rainy season go hand-in-hand.
Mr. Chef was not the only one who had presents to open on Sunday morning. Our lovely friends brought home some birthday presents for Miss Stella. Paint and art projects galore, and there are already new masterpieces hanging on our walls.
My cats are playing with a drinking straw, right now. A pink one. When we got this big boy, all those years ago in Shanghai, Mr. Chef used to bring him home pink straws for Finnie to play with, because, as Mr. Chef said, Finnie Binnie likes the pink ones best.
Last night we made the decision that our boys need to stay in Japan. And watching Mr. Finn teach is little brother how to play with pink straws is totally breaking my heart.
BRB I need to go cry about my first world white girl problems now.
What, WHAT? When did you become this big girl who can climb steps and gown down stairs all on your own? STOPPIT time!!
Here I go again, taking pictures of my kid when there are about a million other things out there that I'd love to be reminded about after I leave this island. But, well, this is classic Stella. The mouth working to from words, the sweetest curls, the drool(!) the eyes, oh the eyes.
She was getting bored, waiting for me to finish my coffee. So she said, "Mama, bye-bye 'Bucks. Go! Play!"
Okay. How could I refuse. Bye-bye Starbucks. There's a playground waiting.
I took sweet Stella on a trip down town on Saturday so that the Chef could sleep in. It's more than a fair trade. I get uninterrupted nightime sleep as he deals with our STILL waking babe (who is, I might add, 24 months old now, WHAT THE HELL, child). And while we're on the subject of sleep, can we also mention that she regularly takes 40 minute naps and won't go to bed until like 9 PM, which is about the time that I like to be hitting the sack but a mountain of dishes and gah, I'm an old lady. And old lady with a child who needs about as much sleep as Martha Stewart.
Wait, what? How did I get here to Martha Stewart. I can't even cut paper in a straight line. I meant to tell you how I took my kid downtown for a haircut and it was murderfaceball, she was so not it to it. The hysterical crying and screaming and trying with the strength of a captured spy undergoing unspeakable torture, to escape my grasp. I'm not even exaggerating. She caused a rolling crescendo of hysterics as all the other babies looked at her and realized what horrors awaited them, and I have a new found respect for the people who make their living cutting baby hair. Anyway now she has a mullet because there was NO WAY that lady was getting near her with those nasty cutting implements ever again, even though it was MY CHILD'S OWN IDEA that she get a hair cut. Le sigh. Parenting.
Also, she dropped the F-bomb for the first time yesterday.
But whatever, the walk down town and the trip on the bus was lovely!
I've taken up running again. I periodically do this, work myself like a maniac for a period, and then nothing for months. Though I'm major stoked that I can do a couch to 5 K plan in about three days.
I took Stella iris viewing today. Japan is big on flower viewing of all sorts, btw.
My girl, however, Japanese(born) though she may be, was way more big on DOWN NOWN viewing. So we stopped at the flowers for a little while, then had a snack at the 'Bucks, and a spot of downtown shopping to look at itty! othes!
This little one worked hard to learn to climb up stairs, and now, she's almost mastered it. I love the way her hand is reflected in the railing. I love that little hand even more.