Going Postal

Bridget and I stood over Annabelle with hopeless, distant looks in our eyes. I let out a deep sigh. She shrugged. And we both did everything in our power to avoid the awkward gazes of the sympathetic people who tiptoed around us.

There, on the stone steps of the post office in the middle of town, Annabelle was throwing her first public tantrum.

She's thrown mini tantrums before. I mean, she'll be 2-years-old at the end of the summer. There was the time in the car when she lost her mimi (pacifier), the time when she was too tired to be at Assembly Row, and the time she did NOT want to come inside to eat dinner. But this one, oh boy. This one.

It's still hard for me to believe that the perfect, adorable, cherubic angel in the picture above is capable of anything other than sunshine and rainbows. She's too sweet, right? Other kids throw tantrums, but my daughter throws kisses and flowers.

Right.

We went to the post office because we needed to get little Annabelle a passport. We're off to Aruba for a much-needed vacation in the near future and she'll be leaving the country for the first time. (By the way, I got my passport when I was 30. Crazy, right? Or maybe embarrassing.) Getting a passport means getting a public photo, which Annabelle hasn't done before.

Simply put, it didn't go well.

At first, the two female employees brought out a stool on which Annabelle was supposed to sit. No luck. Annabelle reached for Bridget while I filled out the annoying paperwork. Then the tears started. Then the yelling. And the uncontrollable, "No, no, no." 

"Maybe you could just hold her," said the first woman, who we'll call Beth, as I came over to help.

We tried that and it looked like we'd found a solution. Hooray! Not too bad!

"Oh, this is the new camera. I'm not sure how it works and I can't click the button," said a suddenly unhelpful Beth. "I'll need to get Alice." 

As Alice (or whatever her name was) came over, Annabelle's tantrum started to gain momentum. Bridget tried to soothe her. I tried to just get it over with. Annabelle tried to run away.

"See if you can hold her, Dad, and keep your head out of the picture," said an increasingly annoyed Alice.


Finally, mercifully, Annabelle stopped crying for 10 seconds and I extended my daughter while arching my head as far back as it would go.

"I can still see your arm," offered Alice, "but maybe this will work." (One of the outtakes is right over there.)

After a couple signatures, some stamps, we were done. But that's when Annabelle's real meltdown started. It's impossible to know why, exactly,, but my guess is that it was a combination of being tired, being forced to do something against her will, and being 20 months old. The crying, wailing, sobbing, and screaming reached a crescendo as Annabelle wriggled out of Bridget's arms to lay down on the cool, concrete steps of the post office.

Finally, after a couple minutes of awkward glances and the public embarrassment came and went, we scooped up Annabelle and put her in her car seat. She was asleep 30 seconds later.

Ah, well. At least she got the tantrum out of her system for this year. That's how it works, right?

Wanderlust

It was apparent fairly early on in my relationship with Mike that people began to realize that he was, well, different. That things were fairly serious. And that he was, quite possiblly, a permanent fixture my life.

And I remember very clearly having a chat with my mother in her kitchen, mugs of tea warming our cupped hands, and her asking, "So, do you think Mike is The One?"

I smiled, blushed, nodded, and went on at some length about how wonderful he was (I'll spare you the details).

But after a pause, I looked up and admitted that there was one thing that was a leetle bit of a concern. Kath looked at me with a furrowed brow, "Yes, dear? What is it?" She clutched her mug a little more tightly, waiting for me to reveal that he liked to wear women's underwear, or he was filing for bankruptcy, or he tortured small animals for pleasure.

"Well, Mom, he doesn't TRAVEL." She looked at me, perplexed, and nodded for me to go on.

"He's never left NORTH AMERICA," I explained. No response from my mother.

"I mean, he doesn't even have a PASSPORT!" I continued, convinced I was finally communicating the direness of the situation.

In her face, I saw utter bewilderment. And perhaps a little exasperation. It seems that maybe after 30+ years of marriage you start to think there are bigger fish to fry than disagreements about where to spend your next vacation.

But for me, the issue of travel seemed very real. When Mike and I first started dating, I don't think he had ever taken a vacation. Certainly not one that required the boarding of a plane. And as a result, he had weeks of vacation time socked away. I found this completely appalling. Why wouldn't one take a vacation? Why would you choose to go to work instead of go to a tropical island, or an exciting new country, or even just a cabin in the woods? What was wrong with this man?

But as differences go, I quickly realized that I could deal with this one. And in the first year of our relationship I took off and did some pretty intense solo traveling. And I came to terms with the possibility that my big trips may be behind me.

Then Mike proposed, and as a last hail mary pass, I decided to book a trip to Ireland for his Christmas present. In my twisted little brain I just couldn't envision getting married before Mike had acquired a passport.

To my utter surprise and delight, Mike loved it. I cannot express to you how happy it made me to sit next to him as he drove our tiny, tiny little rental car, on the wrong side of the road, through the narrow country lanes of Ireland. He frolicked with sheep. He drank Guinness. He bought aran sweaters.

And on the trip I realized that Mike and I are still growing. That we still have much to teach each other. And that there is no one I would rather be on this journey with.

Oh, and also, that maybe I should keep my inane concerns to myself so as not to anger family members.    (Sorry, Mom.)