Today I felt a little overwhelmed. The air seemed a bit thinner and myself a bit heavier. Just a mild attack of anxiety. There was no good reason for all this thin air, leaden body business. The house was clean (almost), dinner already in the oven and I am currently wearing jeans that almost-barely-just-one-more-centimeter zip up. As far as 18 weeks pregnant me goes, it is a banner day. And yet the nervousness was here, illogical, unmoving. Annoying. Some people sleep through their anxiety, others walk it away, heavens knows there are times when I ice-cream-eat-it to oblivion. However, I was not tired, it looked like rain so a walk seemed ill-advised and there was not one, NOT ONE, sweet in this entire house. What is a girl to do?
This girl plans vacations.
Beautiful, exotic, butter filled confections of vacations. Itineraries that stretch for days and have morsels of culture, cuisine and, well, more cuisine. I can tell you exactly where I would eat on an April night in Paris. Precisely what hotel demonstrates elegance and locality just perfectly in Cairo. The most beautiful horse properties in Kentucky and the best places to shop in Tokyo. I know what streets I want to wander in China and how to find the loveliest sunset in Hawaii. (A fair number of trips. Nervous, much?) Star encrusted journeys that only exist in my head and savedtripadvisor links.
Today, while Margaret napped, I planned a trip to Sante Fe. I know, I know. A little touristy, a smidge new agey, so many smiling white people wearing birkenstocks. This girl does not care. Someday she will stay here and eat here. I think I can blame my fixation with Sante Fe on the movie, Newsies. If it moves Christian Bale to song, then it must be good.
The trip was researched and arranged and put away. The air was no better to breathe and I didn't feel any lighter. Margaret had started to gibber away in her room. She was sitting up, "reading" to herself. I watched until she got to the last page with a hearty, "THE END!" She saw me standing at the door, held out her book and shouted, "READ IT, READ IT, MOMMY!"
And so I did. We read about bunnies with golden shoes, fairies, dinosaurs and little boys. We read about meadows and mountains and a house underground. And the letters became the words and the words became their meaning. Writing was a kind of magic and I cast the spells. She and I traveled to places that don't exist, or maybe places that we just haven't seen yet. We left her room, right out the window and went where ever the story took us. At the end of each adventure we slammed the book, "THE END" and moved onto the next. A lovely escape.
I can breathe again.