• He pooped immediately before take-off, during take-off, and during landing during various legs of our traveling.
• He refused to sleep in flight, but would sleep while landing and running between gates.
• His sippy cup exploded milk all over a nice older businessman in first class. (This was Mama’s fault, not his, and I am still mortified.)
• He discovered that barf bags make excellent canvases for crayons.
• He regularly surveyed over the back of Mama’s seat, and waved to everyone in sight.
• He attempted to run laps up and down the length of the aisle.  Too bad for him that Mama and Dada were both onto his tricks.

Anyway, it was exhausting and ultimately successful.  I have decided that flying with a toddler is a little like being in labor: you tell yourself the whole time, “THIS CAN’T LAST FOREVER.”  But it feels like the experience never-ending.  Whew.

You guys! There are planes and trucks out there!

What fascinating play equipment they have installed.

I will drop Puddles the Duck for the sole purpose of crawling under here. Mama will never catch on.

Let’s do a little in-flight shopping, shall we?

Make more grapes appear. NOW.

Landing and transferring gates is the perfect time to fall asleep, thankyouverymuch.

I will feed Dada the animal crackers, because I am a benevolent ruler in my kingdom.

Yay! Happy Face!

I AM MOST SERIOUSLY DISPLEASED. Angry Face!

I am going to ignore you while I play with my ladybug.

This first set was taken at University Village, just off of the University of Washington campus. I kid you not: I saw a toddler in Crocs and a sweater with elbow patches. (It was quite the change from the rompers and polo shirts I see little boys wearing in Atlanta!) We fit right in with our fleeces. It was lovely. We also met Mia and her daughter, K, for a bout of adventuring and chatting. What a gift!

Can we go to the playground now?

I’m pondering the slide. Don’t rush me.

I survey the vista, for I am the King of All that I See.

He’s finally gone to ponder somewhere else. I’m going to SLIDE!

More of your cupcake, please.

Zzzzzzzz…

——————–

A native Atlantan told me a joke the first time I visited:

A woman is dying.  She asks her minister, “What will happen to me when I die?”

He answers, “You’ll go to Atlanta.”

She says, “Well, yes, I know that my body will be returned to my family.  But what will happen to my soul?  Will I go to heaven, Pastor?”

He replies, “You’ll go to Atlanta.  Doesn’t matter if you go to heaven or hell; everyone has to go through Atlanta to get there.”

This, my friends, is the TRUTH.  Everyone and everything goes through Atlanta to get somewhere else.  It is one of the great hubs of the United States; in fact, the Atlanta International Airport is the busiest in the world.  (If you have done any flying east of the Rockies, you’ve probably had a layover here.)  And that doesn’t just apply to people either!  There is a 24-hour flow of semi-trucks, fuel trucks, trains, etc. carting food and goods into the city. Welcome to the center of the world, people.

Now, y’all know that I grew up in Seattle.  I have seen a ton of traffic, especially in that stupid little corridor on I-5 where they built the convention center over the freaking freeway.  (Not that I’m bitter about it.  GAH.)  But Atlanta has traffic for entirely different reasons.  For all of the freeways and highways and neighborhoods this city has, and the sheer square miles the metro-area covers, there are still more cars and people than the city can handle.  HOLY COW.  This place is huge, and there are people everywhere all of the time driving a million directions.  Rush hour is a truly staggering sight: a couple million people commuting home. It boggles the mind.

Do you have a mental picture of this?  The number of cars on the road… the semi-trucks moving goods… trains at all hours, running through the city and stopping up thoroughfares…  Ready?  Here comes my favorite part:

I have never seen aggressive driving in the United States like I see it here.  (I just gave my mother a heart attack.  Sorry, Mom!)

It’s like someone analyzed the lazy, meandering, blinker-free, pedestrian-worshipping culture of Portland driving, and asked themselves, “How could I possibly form a driving culture as antithetical as possible to this one?”  Here it is: Atlanta, Georgia.  Where the pedestrian better watch his back.  Where sliding across 4 lanes of traffic is not only allowable, but commonplace.  Where 3 more cars will try to sneak through the intersection after the light turns red orange. Where 15 MPH over the speed limit is the common freeway speed (and you’ll still get tailgated).  Where semi-trucks and tanker trucks play leapfrog (and tailgate you while you drive 15 MPH over the speed limit).  Where every other road is named “Peachtree.”  Where the cars are nice, the drivers aggressive, and the roads utterly confusing.

I kid you not.

And I love it.  Don’t get me wrong: some of the local driving habits are terrifying, and you better believe I won’t be adopting them (particularly that bad habit of running red lights!).  But there is something rather freeing about driving down the road and assuming that everyone around you is driving as aggressively as possible.  In Portland, I used to ask myself, “Why is this guy driving in two lanes going 20 MPH below the limit, and will he drift into me if I attempt to pass him?” In Atlanta, I think, “That lane ends soon — I bet at least 4 cars panic and force their way over on an orange light.” Hipsters were erratic, but at least aggression is somewhat predictable… as long as you remember the cardinal rule.

Southern hospitality is about food.  Southern driving is about pent-up football aggression. Good luck.

Life is best when you have no clothes.

Someone misjudged whether he was small enough to fit in a baby seat. (Hehehe.)

He’ll grow into it.

By the way… happy birthday, Uncle Josh!  And happy early birthday, Uncle Bryce!  Your nephew will eat everything in sight, in your illustrious honor(s).

In other news, the little bear got some very fun stuff for Easter this year.  This includes a box of neon blue Peeps from Nana and Papa.  Today I’m  posting pictures of his first (and only) encounter with this mysterious marshmallow creation.  I have a bunch of other photos to post as well, so keep checking in all week!

These nicknames get more crazy the older you get, don’t they?  I figure that we only have a few years that we can really indulge in them, though, before you start saying “MOM!” and rolling your eyes.  I’m going to enjoy them every minute until then.  I like to think that Sugar Bear is a nod to your new status as a Southern gentleman, as well as your well-earned reputation for eating everything in sight.  Oh my word, I cannot fathom what it will cost to feed your metabolism during puberty.  (You are clearly your father’s child.)

We’re getting close to the 18-month mark.  You have a few words now: truck (GRUCK!), duck (GUCK!), Daddy (DADA!), Mama (DADA! — that’s right, you call me Dada), baby (BABBEE!), and done (DONE!).  You shake your head to indicate no — boy, do you love saying no! — and you sign the words “all done” and “please” as it suits your purposes.  You can handle the slide almost on your own now.  You still love to read books.  You have a passion for climbing that has me envisioning many trips to the ER, because you will attempt to climb absolutely anything.  You are nearly fearless, my love.

Today is Holy Saturday.  For years, I always ignored Holy Saturday because there was nothing much to remember.  Palm Sunday has the entry to Jerusalem; Maundy Thursday has the foot washing and the Last Supper; Good Friday has crucifixion; and Easter Sunday has the resurrection.  Holy Saturday was just that weird day right before Easter, when Jesus was dead and the disciples were bummed and I was BORED.  As a kid, I would think, “C’mon, let’s get to the good part!”  (I was a reverent, profound child.)

But this Holy Week comes at the end of a rough couple of years, for many people.  This week I had a friend who was so desperately tired and overwhelmed from things harder than you can imagine.  Praying for her, in the midst of the awfulness, left me with that terrifying feeling of desperation.  Oh God, there is nothing left, and there is no light. Where are You? Why aren’t You here? Do You abandon Your children? Thinking of her situation reminded me of the many nights over the past few years when I felt abandoned by God, left adrift, left to silence and fear.

Holy Saturday must have been such a day for those who loved Jesus.  Even the most trusting must have wondered, Why, God?  What now? Will You never save us? I can’t imagine what it must have been to be Mary, His mother.  Jesus was dead, hastily buried in a tomb before the Sabbath began at sundown. The emptiness and grief would paralyze even her faithful heart.  The promises of God to redeem and heal His people must have seemed a mockery that Saturday.

I know that it’s a bit odd to be writing to you about that desperate day instead of the sheer jubilation of Easter.  I just want you to know something: though I wish I could prevent it, my fearless boy, there will be times in your life when fear and grief and desperation overwhelm you.  I don’t know what will cause it, but it will happen.  Know this too: that God brought hope after the darkest day.  The sun rose on Sunday morning and so did Christ.

There is always, always, always hope, dearest.  No matter what happens.

I love you,
Mama