Christmas in New York was bright and sunny, though the cold finally set in on Boxing Day. This was the first Christmas when we sought out no family but ourselves. This was non-optimal, in a way, since other people, like my mother, were alone on the day, which makes me sad to think about. But she's in Albuquerque and we're up here. Life is not a sitcom, where everyone has unlimited resources to spend on whims.
Christmas Day, as I recall, was the first cloudy day in a while, and the stark shadowless day answered our mood: muted, but cozy in its way. Our Christmas tree, decorated in love and friendship, shined in the window alcove and we spent the day eating and talking to Felicity, who by that time had given a hint of the smiles that were soon to cross her face more or less constantly. It was a nice time, a sign that we could no longer be "alone on the holidays," because we were a family.
On Boxing Day, I hauled my carryon to Penn station for a train to DC and the Eastern APA. I had secured two first-round interviews (with a third school giving me a fly-out), and it was time to sing for my supper. The details are of little interest: I did well enough, or so I thought, though to date I seem to have struck out on both counts. What is of some interest, though, is how I felt during the proceedings. My Ph.D., now confirmed, coated my fragile self-regard in teflon.
Nothing really had changed about me: I had published nothing, still an all-but featherless gosling fresh from the nest. But my name-tag said "Columbia" and I was Dr. Whoever, and that made all the difference. Through all the middle-school dance of the convention, I felt a comfort in my skin I could not have imagined a year ago. It bodes well for the future. Plus, word came a few days later that I was getting published in a top journal, so nuts to you, people who didn't give me a flyback. Your loss.
I returned to Manhattan for a night, then it was off with Rachel and Felicity to Albuquerque. Felicity still had a grandmother to meet, after all, and it was wonderful to watch them together. As it happened, a good deal of my family converged on Albuquerque for our visit: Hillary and Ben, who fairly shine with peace and good health; my cousins Dierdre and Erin, who brought her husband and 18-month old boy…
(Funny story about him. Erin asked to hold Felicity at one point, and Clay's face darkened as he looked on. He chopped the air with his tiny hand and pouted: "mine! mine! mine!")
…and were there to see my aunt Lynn and our Steve, Steve, who live in Pecos (outside Santa Fe). Everyone got to meet the baby (Hillary said Felicity made her feel "eggy," a trenchant if not entirely un-gross way to put it) and Felicity took to Mom in a way that has to be seen to be believed.
I cannot close the curtain on this entry without two further stories. In a 48 hour period I had the privilege of not one but two fairly traumatic diaper-change experiences. The trauma had nothing to do with the smell, color or quantity of Felicity's poop—if one believes Hollywood, the worst thing that can happen to a man is to have to interact with baby feces; movies greatly exaggerate the matter.
First, she let one rip while we were sitting in a cafe in Nob Hill, and no diaper could contain the pea-green fury. It was a shabby-chic cafe on Central, so the bathroom had a small sink and toilet, and no changing surface to speak of. So I stripped Felicity naked on the tile floor (she was on top of her portable changing mat, barely big enough to hold her), hoping against hope that she never brought her little hands down to touch the floor. She coped much better than I did, smiling and cooing at me through the whole matter, though she did start shivering before I managed to get her new outfit on (it seemed there would not be enough wipes in the world to get her clean).
The second happened on the flight between Albuquerque and Atlanta. Felicity needed a change, and we were hours from landing, so off I went to the lavatory, which turned out, unlike pretty much every other plan I've been on ever, not to have a changing table. So I unfold the portable changing table onto the toilet seat, the only surface in sight, but Felicity is too long to go on it without some part of her body hanging down, so one of my hands is always occupied in keeping her from sliding off the seat as the other hand digs blindly around the diaper bag for all the necessaries. Just as I get her diaper open and am fumbling for wipes, Felicity pees in a tiny sprinkling arc off the toilet and onto the floor. Then we hit turbulence and the plane starts tilting side to side. I'll leave the rest to imagination, but spoiler alert: we're both still here, and Felicity cried for maybe two seconds total and looked up at me trustingly the rest of the time. It was quite moving, despite the Nile delta of urine blobbing along the floor.
In conclusion: Flick-a-Dee!
