Departures

I have a reoccurring dream in which I flee from a great danger with only a few minutes of warning. Sometimes I have the Boy with me. Sometimes I am alone. The worst is when I have Blake in my arms. Every time I have this dream, I scramble to pick up as many things as I can carry before I go. My mind is a thunderstorm of fear and adrenaline and contingencies. I can't hold it all. I can't bear to let any of it go.

We put off making the decision to leave until the very last minute. We were, after all, flat busted broke. There would have to be a miracle to let us make the extravagant decision to take a vacation. But then a miracle up and tumbled upon us: my EI payments were reinstated and all the backpay was deposited at once. We not only had money again, but we had more money than we would've had if the payments hadn't abruptly ended. We were feeling a bit giddy. And so we decided to ride the wave, pack up the car and go go go.

All the time we packed, I worried about my father at work and my mother sleeping upstairs. I was certain that one or both would appear out of the air and call off our trip for us. I was sure that the bad thing was going to happen before I had time to escape with my baby and my boy.

With all this in mind, you can understand why it took me hours after our departure to take an unhurried breath and truly relax. But eventually I unbent. And it was good.

Blakers and the Drive

It takes about eight and a half hours to drive to Chicago if you don't stop. We budgeted for an even eleven, what with pit stops and food stops and baby-being-cranky stops thrown into the mix. The time change helped us out, giving us back one magical hour. And Blake helped out, too - he slept most of the time, and was reasonably well-behaved for the rest. This meant that he got to nurse every few hours and get out of the car to stretch his legs; this also meant that when he was exceptionally troubled, one of us would ride in the back and keep him calm.

On the way up I had contemplated beginning an itemized road journal to document the hell of travelling with a wee toddler, but he was very well-behaved (i.e. no more devilish than usual). He did seem to develop a bit of a diaper rash while we were away, but that may not have come from the long drives - we took him out with us every day of our vacation and he may have gone a bit longer than usual between changes. He was in disposable diapers for the duration, which made much practical sense (taking a stinky laundry operation on the road, no thanks) but may have inflamed his little heinie.

On the negative side, he wasn't fond of the city lights once we hit Chicago, but on the positive side he let us listen to the unabridged audio recording of Coraline for hours and hours. It all balances out.

I didn't know Blakers could drive a car

Zoo Boo Part Two

On our first full day in Chicago, Pixie, the Boy, Blake & I took the bus to the Lincoln Park Zoo. I had difficulty with the whole concept of 'free zoo,' and kept saying things like, "how much does it cost to get into the zoo?" and "how can they afford to have a free zoo?" and "is it worth going to a free zoo? how good can it be when it's free?" Obviously, I have been scarred by my lifelong association with the Metro Toronto Zoo, which is an expensive but excellent example of the genre. Even when I was assured that we were going to a decent zoo, I was still sceptical.

What I saw that day was a zoo in transition. There were the old-style big featureless cages of wild cats, but also a really well done gorilla habitat. The bears were all depressed and depressing (with the exception of the polar bear, who seemed to be holding his shit together), but the monkey house was fascinating and we spent a very long time hanging out at the aforementioned gorilla habitat. (The gorillas had two little babies: an eleven-and-a-half month old (Blake!) and a 7-week-old (Orion!). I'm always fascinated by the interaction between nursing primates and their offspring; a nearby docent told us that gorillas typically nurse for 3 to 3 ½ years. Neat.)

Blake was pretty well-behaved, but he didn't get much out of our visit. I'm sure that he wondered why we keep taking him to places so that we can stare at distant slow-moving lumps of fur.

blake grooves on a disembodied polar bear paw

sleeping bunny, loving aunty, metal 'rillas

Making music

One of the best things about visiting Pixie & Joe & the Rat is that their creativity is inspiring.

Example the first: One night when the drummer in Joe's band was late, the Boy volunteered to sit in. I was putting Blake to sleep at the time, but even three rooms away I could hear him producing some very enthusiastic beats. That's what I love about the Boy: where music is concerned, he's absolutely fearless. It's subtly different from me, as I also have more enthusiasm than sense but and less intuitive talent.

But our willingness to make musical asses of ourselves came in handy. Example the second: Pixie & the Rat are working on a fairy musical, and Pixie needed to make up a tape of scratch vocals for a soprano. Because we were around, we got to be scratch fairies! And as a bonus, we got to leave town before we had to listen to ourselves sing! (Scratchily, that is.)

Cross-border shopping

A curious effect of our week-long poverty before we left for Chicago was my continued reluctance to spend money. I usually like lavish dinners, pretty trinkets, even a few necessities from my trips; this time I was afraid to get anything. This put something of a damper on our traditional trip to the Alley.

I always have a weird time at the Alley. First there was the simple shock at the range of t-shirts available, from Johnny Cash giving the finger to Nazi punk slogans. (I experience that shock every time. I'm just a rube, I suppose.) Then I head for the baby clothes. This trip I found that they haven't much expanded their stock from the last time we visited and the only thing I really wanted was a black Paul Frank hoodie with Skurvy on the front. And then I pull back from the baby clothes and spend a few minutes coveting the wide range of girl clothing on display. But since I can't have everything, I decide I want nothing, and I leave without a single thing in my hand.

I don't know how I can stand to leave the Alley empty-handed when they sell so many items I covet. I suppose I know that if I let my guard down, if I open up a tiny chink in the dam of self-restraint, I'll max out my credit card in the twinkling of an eye. Because, damn! I think I need a pink hoodie with a big Skurvy on the front, don't you? (No. I probably don't when if comes down to that.)

And then to reward myself for not losing my mind (not to mention any hope of a positive credit rating), I decided to get my ear pierced. Did I get my lobe re-pierced, the hole that closed right before Preacher's wedding? Nope. Did I get a new piece of jewellery to maintain the upper cartilage piercing that's been empty ever since I discovered a bent earring on my pillow last summer? Nope. I got my tragus pierced. Why? Because Petra did it in Nova Gothic three years ago and I'm at least as extreme as a virginal Baptist who got her first degree at a Christian university.

the new earring, moments after it was punched through my flesh. I love it.

The Boy was kind of taken aback by my decision, both at the cost and at the decision itself. He complained that I hadn't discussed it with him; I replied that if I didn't do things on impulse then they would never get done. This twisted logic settled him down a little and we started to price-shop. I ended up at a parlour where Joe had been tattooed, and before I could think twice I had a new circlet punched through the nubbin of my left ear. I'm very happy with it so far.

Interlude: The apartment

When we visited last year, Pixie, Joe & the Rat were living in one of two apartments in an old newspaper office. Over the course of that weekend I fell in love with their place - the doors, the tile, the patio, the windows...it all made me feel like I'd tumbled into a movie about gritty but rewarding urban life. That weekend we were told that the tenants of the other apartment had recently vamoosed, which was a good thing as they were heroin-addicted prostitutes with AIDS and they kept a very filthy brothel. The Rat moved into that apartment later, and Pixie helped him scrub through all the layers of yuck that had accumulated in the apartment of ill-repute. Even later that year, Joe & Pixie decided to move over. A few of Joe's bandmates took over their old apartment, and the building became a very calm place to live.

It has a few eccentricities, though. The bathroom isn't connected to the Apartment of Ill-Repute; you have to go out the front door and down the hallway. (This was less of a problem for us visitors; we don't feel entitled to go naked to the bathroom.) There's also a room off the main hallway that is a practice room for the band as well as a small recording studio and cat-free guest room. (Although I was very appreciative of the not-inconsequential effort of keeping 6 cats out of a guestroom, we ended up taking Pixie & Joe's bedroom with the big bed and the floor space for our playpen.) Over the living room area there's a big boarded-over skylight from happier times. And there's the wonderful rooftop patio, now a bit too cold for us.

It could be such a luxury apartment if the landlord bothered to put some money into it. I kept scheming about redecorating, just like last time. Only last time I chalked it up to nesting. Now I think that I just like old buildings & challenges.

Dream with the fishes

A couple years ago, the Boy took a bus down to Chicago for Reading Week. While he was down he geeked around the city watching hockey, appreciating theatre & visiting natural history museums (until they kicked him out). He's always raved about the Shedd aquarium, so we decided to go on this trip. It seemed like the perfect attraction: Blake would love all the moving fish and the rest of us could gape in wonder at the many unusual specimens on display. Even better was the fact that Pixie had never been, so it was new to more than half of us.

We had an amazing time, all. The displays were astounding - I could've stayed in the front hall for the entire visit and walked away satisfied. By the time we left I was saturated with sharks and turtles and squid. I was thrilled by touching a seastar and an anemone. I was charmed trying on the sea creature costumes for kids. It was so good that even seeing the dolphin show wasn't a particular highlight in among all the other highlights.

this picture cracks me up. i can't tell who's making a face.

our squiddy joy

could this picture be any cuter??

I can definitely see us going back year after year.

Interlude: the stabilizing influence of Blake

I never thought I'd be thankful for the boring details of life with a baby. It's true that with Blake along, I couldn't be swept away by the travel experience like I was the first time we came to Chicago. But it's also true that Blake's presence kept us all fed & rested when we might've overextended ourselves. I didn't have to pack club clothes for evening wear because Blake was in bed by 7 every night. And there was always something to talk about with the Blakonaut around.

Pixie & Joe were also good hosts and very considerate of our needs as a family. They pitched in as well, with the result that I never had to load myself down like a pack mule (as I sometimes have to do these days in order to have adventures). Between those two and the Boy, Blake was in his carrier the entire time and he loved every minute of it. Can I say again how much I love my Baby Trekker? It was so, so much more convenient than schlepping a stroller onto the el, and it let all of us have a bit of snuggle time with the Big Baby On Campus.

I think we all appreciated Blake's presence, not just because he was fun to care for, but because he forced us to care for ourselves.

On behalf of all gay men

The longer I nurse, the more comfortable I get (obviously). So it's starting to bug me when I read comments along the lines of "...as a gay man, all i have to say to that picture [of stored breastmilk] is: Ewww. Ewww. Ewww." I wondered if it were true; if homosexuality was a good enough reason to squeal & back away from the health & beauty inherent in human milk. As a knee-jerk liberal, I desperately needed to know: should I be super-tolerant of my gay male brethren, or could I continue to seethe with righteous indignation (as well as oxytocin)?

So I did what anyone would do. I appealed to the Rat. I figured that if anyone would take it upon himself to speak for all gay men, it would be the Rat. Noblesse oblige and all that.

"It depends," he said, laying down his judgement carefully. "Most of us are female-positive, so it's okay. There's always a small contingent that hates women and is reminded of them by milk." I sighed in relief.

"I'll raise the issue at our yearly convention," he continued. "The one where we figure out our plans for the year." (I was reminded of the Lawyer, when he told me about the assignments he and his friends all got as part of the Jewish Conspiracy.)

I'm just happy that I can go back to seething. I do anger so much better than forced sympathy.

when the rat's cool with it, everyone wins

Interlude: the people I didn't meet.

This is almost everyone. Sure, I saw Pixie & Joe, the people I love. I even saw a lot of the Rat, who has been known to hide out in his room for days at a time, offering up the briefest glimpse of a foot before disappearing from sight. (And this is good, because the Rat is funny, the Rat likes my baby, and most importantly, as we know by now the Rat can speak for all gay men when he chooses.)

I didn't, however, see Amy, which was kind of weird because I've never been to Chicago without seeing Amy. Usually I email her and she emails me and they're all full of capitals and omigods and we use up our quota of exclamation points in telling each other how excited we are to even think about meeting up. This time there was silence. Silence! I even left a phone number on her comments. But there was no Quinn. No Andy. And no Amy. It all makes me sad.

I also gathered up my courage and emailed Erin Shea a few months back, partly to congratulate her on getting married and partly to pop the idea of a get-together once I was in town. I've just started reading her journal (I know. I'm a bad person), and I thought it would be groovy. Again with the big silenty silence.

I chickened out entirely before I could write to Wendy. That's probably for the best.

First Word

Blake said his first word in Chicago: cat. We don't keep pets, so his exposure to dogs & cats is limited to short visits. (Like when he tried to eat Noizangel's cat.) I think that this was the first time he's been around animals long enough for the label to filter into his consciousness.

Pixie has 3 cats; the Rat also has 3. Most were a little skittish around Blake, but Torgo was good-natured and let himself be pet by little clumsy hands. Blake, for his part, loved his furry friends and couldn't understand why I pulled him away once they started to hiss. And on Monday he started babbling "at. at. at," whenever he caught sight of one of the six.

Yes, he's definitely his father's son.

Ride home

Our ride home was generally uneventful. We listened to Coraline and talked about how much fun we'd had. Blake slept a lot, ate some, and even played when we sat next to his seat. I think this was an excellent first road trip. Canso, here we come!

look how happy we are!

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 11/23/2004 09:19:00 p.m.