Off

We’re off our routine.

We’re in someone else’s house, a house brimming with dangerous treasures just waiting to be discovered by a marauding Babyman. He eschews crawling almost entirely now; only when he is in a very big hurry or is very tired does he go down on all fours.

No, he is all biped now, smacking the flat of his palm against the tank, scaring the poor fish and sending them hither and yon inside the fresh, clear water. He smacks the glass again, yelling in triumph as they scatter, hoping to hide from this strange, blue-eyed monster.

Everyone slept late this morning, me included. It was a restless night, sharing a bed with The Poo. Thick darkness made an obstacle course of the floor, forcing me to feel my way to the loo in the middle of the night.

I never sleep well on my first night away from home.

I’m not sorry to be here; as Chambana fell away behind us, the ocean got closer with every mile. We’re still eight days out from the salt air, but my nostrils are twitching with anticipation, like a dog with its head hanging out of the car window.

The Poo is in her element, staying up late and playing so hard outside after dinner that her hair curls on her sweaty forehead, soft tendrils clinging to her earlobes. She talks and talks and talks, and she talks even as her breath slows. Maamaaaaaaaaaa, she says, her eyes fluttering closed, at last, well past her bedtime.

Naps and meals slide off the schedule; suddenly, it’s 2:30 in the afternoon and no one has eaten lunch yet. The Babyman eats pickles instead of green beans, and we all laugh.

Summertime is having it’s way with us–we’re off, in the most delicious way.