I didn’t mean to get up at 5:45 to grade papers.
A few hours later I headed with Emmy for our ritual Saturday morning bath, which had been delayed for a couple of weeks on account of tattoo issues. I thought baths were supposed to be relaxing. Ours began that way, so much so that Emmy conked out on my chest the second she hit the water. At bath’s end, I called to Eleni to come grab the soggy baby. Eleni arrived at the door. She turned the handle. And again. And again. The door wouldn’t open. I made the precarious climb out of the deep tub, babe in arms. I got her all dry and went and tried the handle myself. No go. Emmy and I were stuck. First I asked Eleni to slide me a credit card under the door, so I could try to free the little tongue thing that was stuck. The only tool I had on the inside was a toothbrush. Then I asked her to call a neighbor, but changed my mind. I wasn’t really dressed for a visit.
I schemed. I opened the window and eyed the ground 12 feet below. Too far to jump with a baby. Through the door I asked Eleni to go get the ladder and bring it around. Luckily I had some PJs in there, so I got clothed. It took a while for Eleni to stabilize the ladder on uneven ground. Meanwhile, Emmy was buzzing around on all fours, unclad. There’s a reason that babies don’t go unclad all the time; mysteriously, one area of the floor became suddenly slick. I didn’t notice till I saw her all-fours go out from under her and heard the thump of head against tile.
Once she was comforted, the rescue operation began. The window opens only about a foot, so I ducked under and carefully handed down one naked baby into the autumn air.
The next part was harder. I tried to go out head-first, which failed. I tried to go out feet first, with no luck. So I had to bend double, which someone my age with a bum back can’t do easily, and cram myself through the narrow space. The only thing I could find to grasp as I lowered myself down the side of the house was the quarter-inch deep window frame. It was a while before my foot touched down on the top of the ladder. Not bad for a 57-year-old.
After our adventures, Emmy was tired.
When I get to Guatemala, I’ll write about things other than Emmy, but for now that’s my only tune. In the afternoon we did what every good American does: go see Santa. Do you know what Santa says? “Ho ho ho,” you think? Well, you’re wrong. The first thing Emmy did when she saw him was to go into a barking fit: “Woo woo woo.” Dogs, rats and Santa are of a feather (as Mom might have said were she the one writing this), all speaking the same language. I guess Santa is pretty furry.
Once on his lap, she wasn’t so sure she liked dogs any more after all. She didn’t cry, but I’ve never seen such a look of wariness. See for yourself.
If all kids are afraid of Santa, why do we take them to be enfolded in his furry red arms? She was very brave, but when I reached out my unfurry arms to her, she nearly leapt into them.
Goodnight.