Fissure

She smiled and a crack formed in that place 

where two lips 

come together.

The right side. Not the left.

The spot where kids stick an index finger and

pull apart

 to make a funny face,

“cheeeeese”,

for the camera.

Right there: A fissure fractured 

and ran right up to her temple--

flirting dangerously with her hairline.

I wish I were made of clay,

(she thought)

I could pinch myself back together.

Zoe means business.

She is not messing around.

She came into this world with complete lack of regard for me, her mother.

My first contraction was at 2:30 in the morning. 

I was holding her, all cleaned up and snuggled in, at 5:25 AM.

Bye-bye epidural.

Sorry you couldn’t make it, Doctor. 

Nurse, too bad you didn’t have the opportunity to call for back up.

Zoe has her own agenda.

She proved this again, a few nights ago, when she threw a tantrum of such proportions I’m surprised the Earth didn’t split at its core.

It’s a lovely night. It’s Zachary’s last T-ball game. I have an appointment to attend before the game begins and am consequently about 20 minutes late. This means that Tim has both children (one of whom is fielding grounders) for just under a half hour.

I receive several ominous texts of warning to get over to the field because my adorable cherubic toddler is involved in some serious screaming action.

When I arrive she is puffy with tears. Red faced. Sweaty. Nothing consoles her.

I kiss her; she slaps me.

I speak softly; she yells in my face.

I offer her a sippy cup of water; she chucks it at the windshield.

As I wrestle her twisting body into the car--the only option is to take her home and put her to bed-- I yell encouragement over my shoulder to Zachary.

Meanwhile, Zoe shrieks and assures me that she is not tired.

Not at all.

That she’s actually not crying.

We get home (thankfully only a 45 second drive from the park) and she flails all the way to her changing table.

She wants milk.

She wants to sleep in a tu-tu.

She wants me to know that my dress is “yucky”.

I change her diaper.

She attempts to rip the mirror off of the wall.

This child is so exhausted that she is speaking and mumbling like a drunk pink princess.

I’m not tempted to lose my temper with her because she is beyond hysteria.

It’s clear that she needs my help.

I know, too, that as soon as I get her settled there is a list of girlfriends whom I can call.

I know that my ladies will share with me their own stories of tantrum terror.

When you are feeling as if you are in a situation that is anxiety provoking or impossible, there is no better solution than to share the emotions about the situation with someone else who has been there.

Who is there,

Who can understand.

You walk away from the conversation with nothing changed, but everything better.

There is no feeling quite like being heard.

I heard Zoe the other night. She needed my help.

Sometimes all we have to do is listen.

Impossible

I have my Masters degree; Magna Cum Laude.

I received my BS in Psychology and English from Boston College.

I scored pretty darn high on my SAT's.

I tell you these things to prove to you that I am not an unintelligent woman.

What I am is lopsided in the distribution of what I know.

There are some items quite common to our everyday existence, some of which are even antiquated, that no matter how many times someone explains it to me; no matter how slowly they go; no matter how many diagrams they draw…

I just don’t get it.

To compensate for my lack of understanding, I create a mini-movie in my head of how these items work. The movies are fantastical and absolutely fictional. Maybe even science fictional. But, they work for me.

I’ll explain.

Impossible invention #1: The Fax Machine

This sucker has baffled me for years. Yes, I know there is an electronic transmission of information. There’s a scan of a piece of paper and that scan is converted to data and that data is zoomed along a mystery wire to the receiving machine.

Still I say, whaaaaat?

In my mind, what happens is quite similar to the scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (the original, with Gene Wilder) when the little cowboy boy is shrunk into a miniature obnoxious dude. He gets pixilated first, then flies through the air in a million little boy pieces. That’s how I explain the fax.

The document being sent shrinks down and folds into a kind of a baby paper airplane. That paper airplane is, of course, indiscernible and flies to where it needs to go. It flies invisibly through a wire. Then, when it arrives at its target, it swells and smoothes-a plant growing in fast forward on the Discovery Channel- and boom!:

It arrives at its final destination.

Impossible invention #2: The airplane

As recently as yesterday, while I was actually on an airplane, someone tried to explain to me how flight is possible. An engineer, actually. A bright, patient sweet guy who started with air flow over wing tips and proceeded to lift, gravitational pull, and distribution of mass, weight and speed.

Please.

The way an airplane takes off is simple: It’s a miracle.

That sucker weighs seven bazillion pounds. It goes really really fast. Then, it hits a black hole of non-existent gravity. It becomes weightless and floats along. The pilot steers it, (but I can’t really explain the radars and GPS instruments either). It flies in the sky on a cushion of swirly-swirly-up-air. Then, when it’s time to land, it finds the zero gravity black hole on the other side and peeks its nose in and swan dives towards the runway.

Totally simple.

Impossible Invention #3: The cell phone

Are you kidding me?

This is some futuristic craziness.

My cell phone can work at 30,000 feet. I can buy the internet in the sky for $10.00 and surf the web for 3 hours. I can make a phone call to India from my kitchen.

With no wires (not that I can explain those anyway).

The way a cell phone works involves atom sized polka-dots of tornado sound waves that zoom out of the speakers. They turn into swarms of shimmering minnows. They cut through space and time and land in my ear. On my screen.

It’s ridiculous. That’s the best I have. Cell phones are the final destination for me. My head explodes.

That’s it, folks.

Three explanations for three of the most impossible inventions.

I didn’t even attempt to explain digital cameras.

I’ll leave that to one of you.

Integrity

On my way to Oregon, I am seated in an exit row.

I feel lucky. I can scooch to the edge of the seat and stretch my legs out straight; the flats of my feet prop on the wall in front of me. A perfect fit. The flight attendant gives me a blanket and I'm in a little bed.

There is no window in the exit row, just a small circle of thick magnifying glass in the plane door. As we taxi and take off (my favorite part) the world falls away and I have only my sense of hearing.

Of feeling.

There's a rumble. A lift in my stomach like falling in love. The plane gathers that impossible speed and I am in the sky.

I sleep the first few hours. Sometimes stretched out. Sometimes curled in a ball.

When I wake up and have coffee in a teeny tiny airline cup, my seat mate and I begin to chat.

I have misjudged her. I thought she was younger than me. Maybe traveling on her own.

She's beautiful. Unlined skin. A Preceptor of Statistics at Harvard. Her husband is seated seperately, but visits her periodically with snacks and kisses. He's a native New Yorker-that I pegged instantly-and a researcher and developer of an electronic technology called super conductivity.

His goal? To make a train that moves so quickly it floats over the rails.

My seat mate has misjudged me, too. She thinks I'm a college student. She doesn't believe I have two children until I show her pictures. She oohs and ahhhs over Zoe's cheeks. Zach's lego towers. We talk about Boston. About our love for cities and good food and culture.

She is flying to Japan to visit her parents. She sips water in small bursts. Jokes that it takes her an hour to eat an ice cream.

When we are on the ground, my new friend and I say goodbye.

My visit to Oregon is productive. I have honest conversations.

I stay in my grandparents' retirement community. I play Bingo. I sit on a bus tour of the Portland countryside with 25 octagenarians. Pearl, a sweet woman who can't speak or hold her head up, sits next to me. She seems cold. I cover her with my fleece.

The old people move so slowly that I am challenged to keep up.
They touch my hands.
My hair.

I buy a delicate necklace with a silver and gold sparrow.

I sleep in my own room within the community. I can hear wheelchairs and click-clicking walkers outside my door.

I run or walk frequently to keep my head quiet; to help me digest the fact that one day I might be Pearl.

I text with my best friend.

My Aunt brings us to Multnomah Falls. I take a picture while feeling frozen in the spray of the water.

The goodbye as I wait for my cab is hard. Final, feeling.

I speak to my children on the ride back to the airport. Zoe asks me to come swimming. Zachary tells me he has fallen in love with "sour and sweet sauce" since I've been gone.

I get a tea for the plane ride. Sit in a window seat and snap photos of Mt. Rainier. Mt Adams. Mt. St. Helen.

The mountains rise above the clouds.
The sky is blue.
I feel clear.

My seat mate is young--this time I am sure. Probably mid-20's. A red hooded sweatshirt. He sleeps most of the way. I touch his shoulder and climb over him when I have to go to the bathroom.

I finish my tea and listen to some music. A song called Broken Things. One lyric sticks with me: tell me what it is you think you're missing/ I will see what I can find.

I am almost home.