Bonding on vacation

Writers don't take vacations. Neither do mothers. And yet, Bowie and I are undoubtedly on vacation, as opposed to Dave, who's working every day, including weekends, on this part of the trip. Vacation, for us, has meant not something we go away from, but the sense of departure itself, the journey, the change of pace. We feel strongly the absence of nanny Marina, Bowie's tireless guide in his exploration of the world, and whose companionship and love, experience, and steady character we've all come to depend on in the last few months. I admit to weighing Bowie a couple of times on the hotel bathroom scale, wishing to have some tangible report of progress to send Marina. His weight gain has definitely slowed in the last couple of months, which wouldn't be a cause for a second thought if he hadn't been a baby champion in his early months. No dice; the scale's barely holding steady. What's growing is his second set of canines--the bulges are about to pop through--to the total of sixteen teeth; so, there.

In Marina's absence and Dave's occasional presence, Bowie and I have been bonding. Each morning, we accompany Dave down to breakfast, where we share a table with a rotating crew of his co-workers. They are on various deadlines; we're on a mission of discovery, and watch them come and go as we stay for a two hour long ritual of taking up foods, throwing some on the ground, placing others into mommy's mouth, taking out the remains, placing into own mouth, chewing--taking a break to flirt with the neighboring tables--occasionally swallowing, usually spitting out. Baby's favorite food this week? Bacon. Unlikely second winner? Papadum, Indian crisp bread--thank you, pan-Asian buffet. I keep expecting Bowie to develop a sudden interest in congee and fruit (aren't babies supposed to like mushes and sweet things?), and so I keep piling those on our plate, too. So far, he prefers things crispy and crunchy, something to sink his teeth into, with the occasional exception for yogurt (in China, we've tried several varieties; even the "plain" ones seem sweetened). In the time it takes baby to chew a single piece of bacon, mommy ends up having three breakfasts. Hey, it's all my favorite foods.

After breakfast, Bowie exhibits signs of extreme tiredness. There's the eye rubbing, the tugging on mommy's shirt, the jumpiness when somebody makes a loud noise. We return to the room for a nap; nurse; the baby's wide awake. He rolls off the boob, begs to be lowered down to the floor, crawl-runs for the nearest electric plug or a shoe, tugs, chews, gracefully allows to distract himself with a book or a ball. Preparing for the trip in San Francisco, nanny Marina has helped us pack a few of Bowie's favorite toys and books. This kit is a huge success. To it, we add magazines from the hotel room, bottles of water, pieces of food squirreled away from breakfast, and, argh, as of yesterday, TV remote control. Dave and I don't really watch TV at home or on the road, but guess what? The remote control comes with the big red button that tells a baby, able to comprehend cause and effect toys, "press here." It's all trial and error. Nobody showed him how to use the remote. He pushes the button, and occasionally it works. He pushes some more. Next thing I know, he's switching the channels. Quite purposefully.

The amazed mommy, simultaneously thrilled at the baby genius and eager to get baby unhooked from the shiny picture, picks up the balls from the toy kit. Up goes a ball in the air. The baby half turns, curious to see what's happening, then returns full attention to the screen. Up goes the second ball. Now I've got the baby's attention. Eeee, he says, which I figure to mean, do it again. So I do. Again. And Again. Faster. With clapping. With funny sounds when I lose both balls and requests to Bowie: Will you get me that ball? And that other one? Bowie does. This baby, who merely a few weeks ago barely reacted when you said his name, can now follow through a command; tries to repeat the word for ball--мячик, I say, ма-ма-ма, says Bowie. Ma-ma-ma, which could mean mommy or ball, and probably still means neither, but there it comes, the next step is clear. Мячик, I'll say, мя-мя-мя, will repeat Bowie, going for the ball and tossing it back to me (or hiding it from me, as his sense of humor develops). But we're not there yet. We're on the rug and mommy's learning to juggle.

When this juggling routine gets old, we take more laps in the hallway, then return to the room. Blinds closed, lights off, we try to summon sleep once more, and with some luck, and punching, and kicking, sleep sets in. Bowie goes into his crib, mommy makes coffee.

Berry compote in the making