peevish mama

If all had gone as planned, I’d be in Buenos Aires right now with my mother. Instead, I’m killing time in the Atlanta airport, the boredom so intense that I’ve been driven to a desperate act. Posting from my iPhone. This is tricky business, this thumb typing. This placement of words into a box so tiny it threatens to preclude both rereading and revision. Never a good thing.

I tried to go to Argentina yesterday, when I was supposed to, after hasty preparations and and huggy goodbyes. I should have known I wouldn’t get far. Supergirl begged me to do my imitation of the Japanese tourist from Disneyland screaming “Capaten E O!” into her cellphone. In a moment of weakness, I relented, which was not only a misguided attempt to leave my daughter with one last funny memory (it’s hilARIous, you should hear me) should I meet an untimely demise on my trip – it was also stupid, because everyone knows it’s bad karma to make fun of people before air travel. Especially international air travel.

Long story short, mechanical issues – missed connection to Buenos Aires. The only reason this is even something worth writing about is the almost unbearable sense of lightness I had walking into the airport yesterday. But not lightness in the way we like to talk about it. I felt unmoored. As if at any moment I’d go flying to the ceiling like a mistakenly released helium balloon.

It is disorienting to leave my whole brood, knowing full well I’m putting huge distances, multiple countries, between us. Ok, I just realized I don’t know how to scroll back, so I really am reduced to 3 line increments. Consider this performance art.

What is even MORE disorienting, is to spend 4 and a half hours in MSP, listening to music, paging through Harpers Bazar, half enjoying it, half gripping the seat so I don’t start to drift up toward the ceiling, half wondering if my persona makes any sense here in this airport without my peeps and THEN end up having to go home. To reenter life and have one more night before I have to go back to the airport and try again to go to Argentina.

The sliding doors make a sucking sound as I leave the airport, and just like that, I am my weight once again. I am substantial. Grounded.

Long story short: burgers, the couch in a puppy pile, a couple episodes of Malcom in the Middle, pjs, two more chapters of that unicorn book with Devil Baby, one more warm entangled night’s sleep with Dash, an early morning lake loop with Foxy, blueberry pancakes. One more look at that broken pinky toe on Saint James. More smooches and goodbyes. Take two.

Which brings me to this piano bar in the middle of terminal E of the Atlanta airport and this tuna sandwich, this second glass of wine, and these streams of strangers going places who don’t even seem to notice that I’m in danger of floating away.