Airport Angels

As we were trying to prepare for traveling to Estonia with Buster, I came across a comment in some book about traveling with babies.  Basically, the person suggested that if we had thought that international flights were a drag sans baby, we were in a for a rude surprise.  Previously, on international flights I would just get bored and tired of sitting in one place for so long.  This was not the case with traveling with Buster.  Having an active, eighteen pound, seven month old doing gymnastics sitting on my lap for a total of thirteen hours did not lend itself to boredom or immobility on my part.

All things considered, Buster did really well with the traveling part of our travels.  I did learn, however, that the minor irritations of airport delays can quickly become magnified when a tired baby is involved.  In the midst of two of these rapidly magnifying irritations, a delayed flight and an exceptionally long and slow customs process, we encountered two airport angels.  I know (at least I think I know) that they were not angels in the true theological sense, but, nonetheless, their sudden appearances in our lives felt small gifts from Heaven.

The first encounter was with a fellow passenger waiting on a delayed flight.  He was from Nigeria.  He noticed Buster, reached out his arms, and with a smile said "give him to me".  So we did.  Buster was suddenly face to face with this man.  And the two of them were smiling and laughing. He played with Buster for awhile commenting that Buster must be wondering "who is this black man holding me".  Then he handed him back and Buster looked over at him, smiled and made his friendliest spitting noise.

The second airport angel walked directly up to us while we were waiting in an eternal customs line.  She was seven years old.  She was from Toronto but was just returning from visiting her grandpa in Hong Kong.  She was traveling with her mom.  She loved babies.  Her name was Grace.  (This was all disclosed to us within about a minute's time).  All the while that she was telling us these things, Grace was also playing peek-a-boo with Buster.  She made silly faces at him and engaged him with enthusiasm and energy. Buster was thrilled.

We asked her if she liked flying on airplanes.  She said "no" because its boring after the first hour.  And, she explained, she didn't really like it when her ears hurt although she had learned how to blow air to relieve pressure.  It was at this point that this airport angel allowed her seven year old human nature to be revealed.  As she was trying to describe the process of ear pressure relief, her face looked a little perplexed and then she came up with this analogy:

"It's like your ears fart."

Oh, Grace.  Thank you.  That's just what we needed.  Really.  I think we survived the customs line riding on waves of laughter because of you.

Black Bread

Buster has discovered that he likes dark Estonian rye bread.  I don't know that I have ever seen an equivalent to this type of bread in the States.  When I say "dark", I mean practically black.  Not a typical item found on the "first foods" diet in the States, but for our little guy it has found its way into the lineup of peas, carrots, bananas, pears, apples, squash, and sweet potatoes.

Buster has also discovered that he does not enjoy sitting in his stroller all day long, but he does enjoy sleeping in his stroller all night long.  It would, in fact, be better to say that if he is awake, Buster much prefers to be carried in my arms where he can really see all the action.  But, if he is asleep, or trying to be asleep, at this point in our travels, he will not sleep anywhere but sitting up in his stroller like a little old man who has fallen asleep in his favorite chair.

It is possible that he has learned that yelling in the backseat of the car while mom and dad are in the thick of driving through trams, buses, and traffic while desperately trying to read the names of road signs that seem no bigger than a loaf of bread will result in any assortment of things (sippy cups, pacifiers, beloved "Roy", dark Estonian rye bread) being shoved at offered to him.

I'm hoping that he is learning that, even in the midst of new smells, sounds, sights, routines, betimes, mom and dad are trustworthy.  We will always do our best to meet his needs, protect him, and let him know that he is absolutely loved.

Eventually, I long for my son to have many memories of not just the adventure of traveling to new places, but the deep sense connection to people that transcends culture.  I long for him to experience the broad sense of the idea of "home" that I began to understand during the course of my 20's.

"Home" is where you know that you are wanted and waited for.

It has been such a joy and comfort to my soul to be in this place for which I have often felt homesick.  We have a couple days left in Estonia.  Just enough time to brainstorm how to bring lots of dark rye bread back on the airplane.