Starved for Affection

I've had my fair share of adventures in the past six months, in the past six years actually, but an awful lot of them have taken place this year. My most recent adventure began on July 8th, when I started taking care of Owen and Mona (age 13 months and four years, respectively). It has been one of the most educational and entertaining jobs I have ever had.

I never would have looked into child care as a first option of employment, but I had just returned from Europe, I only had two months in the midwest, and to be honest I really didn't want to fill out another set of W2's. My nannying position is supremely flexible and the couple I work for are truly great. Still, I would be lying if I said I was comfortable on my first day of work.

I walked into the house prepared to handle a four-year-old girl (my three-year-old niece and I seemed to have bonded rather well earlier this summer), but I was a bit hesitant about caring for something that couldn't communicate with me. Both of the kids had colds, they were adjusting to a new house, and there was more than a little separation anxiety going on. I had never so much as changed a diaper, much less comforted a crying child and wiped snotty noses for hours on end. But I survived. And so did the kids (which is perhaps even more impressive).

By the second week we were all in a better mood and I began to realize that I needed the kids even more than they needed me. Owen has become quite the little walker in the past three weeks, but he still asks to be held and wants to be carried, especially when he's upset. Though I quickly learned that there are times he just needs to cry it out, I've also found that picking him up is the best way to pacify him. Sometimes I just don't have the patience to figure out what "ehmmm-daht" means.

My first weekend away from the kids I sensed an emptiness about my arms and felt something like phantom limb syndrome even though Owen and his groping fingers were 15 miles away. I just wasn't use to that much physical contact. When I arrived on Monday all I wanted was to scoop Owen into my arms and kiss his soft blond head - and this from someone who was afraid she'd be expected to fake "baby love" when we met at the Reading Reptile two weeks earlier.

That afternoon while Owen was napping, Mona and I were playing tea party in her bedroom. "We needs to gets ready at my vanity," she said, pointing to a small plastic dressing table. "First I brush my hair, and then put on lipstick." She proceeded to show me. "Ok. Now you." I got down on my knees and tried to balance myself on her tiny plastic stool. "I'll help you," she said as she picked up her brush. I pulled out my hair ties and Mona began managing my wavy brown mane with her small white hands. As she gently handled the locks of my hair I felt something in my heart break just a little.

It's been nearly seven months since my last relationship ended, and there has been precious little physical affection in my life since. I knew I would miss the intimacy and crave the companionship, but I don't think I realized that pieces of my heart would go dormant. And would remain that way until someone brought them to life again.

Cuddling a toddler isn't the same as being held by a lover, but it comes surprisingly close. Closer than I would have imagined anyhow. So when Owen is crying to be picked up for the twelfth time in two hours, I don't really mind giving in (even if I am in the process of making lunch). I know my time with him is limited, as perhaps time together always is, and so I make the most of the affection I can get, not knowing how long it will be before that opportunity comes again.

Bridges and Borderlines

I was running past Brush Creek this morning when I came to a bridge. I smiled, as much as one can when they're running in the middle of the day in the middle of June. I love bridges. I love walking over them, passing under them, standing on top of them, photographing them. I've recently visited Paris, Dublin, London, and Prague - cities that grew up around rivers and rely on their bridges.

Crossing over the water in the cool of the evening or the early light of dawn just seems terribly romantic to me. There is a bridge in Paris, Pont des Arts, that has been nicknamed "lover's bridge." I call it the "lock bridge." For the past 10-15 years lovers of all shapes and sizes have purchased padlocks, attached them to the bridge and thrown the key into the River Seine as a sign of their unending love for one another. The occasional combination lock gives you pause, but the sheer number of locks is a testament to the swarms of romantics out there.

As I near the bridge that crosses Brush Creek I think of lovers stealing kisses in the darkness of its shadow. I pass under and my musings are interrupted by broken bottles on the footpath and a strong stench of urine. In a matter of seconds my lovely fantasy dissolves. The bridge becomes foul, and I rush to pass under.

The line between beautiful and disgusting is surprisingly narrow. Sort of like the line between romantic and obsessive, which is something I've given quite a bit of thought to recently. Six months ago my boyfriend and I broke up. Three weeks later I left the country (not on account of the fact that we broke up, that just happened to be the way things panned out). Within a month's time I was longing to be with him again.

I sent a series of e-mails detailing what went wrong and how sorry I was. I wrote letters and kept a journal in which I recorded all of the times that I thought about him, as well as the things I was learning during our separation. I couldn't call him or contact him through Facebook. But I did send lengthy e-mails in which I described the way my heart had changed. Then I waited. And waited. And every 2 or 3 weeks he would send me a response and my heart would sing, not because the response said what I wanted it to (in fact it never did), but simply because I had heard from him.

For six months I petered between bliss and despair. And then I kept it up even after I returned to the States and he made it clear that my hopes and desires were not mutual. It didn't make sense, but it seemed so second-nature. Love can be like that. Can't it? Or is checking your e-mail three times a day in the hopes that you'll hear from someone who doesn't bother responding for three weeks at a time less like love and more like obsession? I'm afraid that it is.

I didn't want it to be. Not again. Not after the way I handled my last break up. But obsession seems to be my natural default when I've been abandoned. As if my knowledge about the other person's whereabouts and activities is somehow going to make them care about me and come back. It never does. And telling yourself that all of your actions and emotions and obsession is merely the result of the fact that you've finally learned to love someone can only last for so long before your fantasy dissolves. You start recognizing your actions for what they are, seeing the trash under the bridge and smelling the stench of bird shit.

If you're lucky, you who have friends who give you space to make this realization on your own. And when you do, they help you walk out of the mess that you've gotten yourself into, taking you to a place where you can hope you'll find a garden. Where you hope that the next time you won't be so taken in by the allure of something beautiful.

If your neighbor is thirsty...

Yesterday I went for a run on Kansas City's Trolley Track Trail (say that five times fast). It was late afternoon, probably 5:30 or so, and the weather was decent, especially in light of how hot it was a week ago. I left my car in a parking lot near the Roasterie and sidled over to the trail sign, trying to decide how far I would go.

The route was broken into odd legs of 7/8, 3/8, 1-3/4, etc. I figured I could do 3 miles down and back pretty easily. (I had, after all, run a handful of half-marathons and finished plenty of 8-10 mile runs in the past five years.) I might have been a overly ambitious.

By the time I reached 85th Street (my turnaround point), I was wishing I hadn't had such faith in my own body. I was also extremely disappointed by the lack of drinking fountains to be found along the Trolley Track - a trail explicitly designed for runners, walkers, and bikers: people who need water. I made the mistake of stopping, thinking that would give me a chance to catch my breath and dig deep for some energy and endorphins. It didn't.

Now ideally this would have been the moment that some sort of inspirational song shuffled onto my iPod. I'm thinking "Eye of the Tiger," "Don't Stop Believin'," "Defying Gravity," inspirational. But I had forgotten my iPod on this particular adventure, so I was left listening to the rhythm of my feet as they played in sync with the gasping of my breath.

I stopped every time I crossed a major intersection (roughly every half-mile), hoping it would be Gregory Boulevard, or better yet Meyer Boulevard. But it wasn't.

Then I spotted the telltale strip mall that marks the corner of Gregory and Wornall - the intersection that marked the beginning of the end, the last leg of my journey. As I waited for the little white man to beckon me on, I noticed a large man in khaki shorts and a red polo shirt standing beside a folding table and pouring gallon jugs of water into 4 oz Dixie cups. Now, who is that for? I wondered, a bit envious of whichever running club had their own Trolley Track watering station. As I approached the table I slowed to a walk, looking for some sort of signage as I passed the man with the water.

A runner coming from the opposite direction crossed my path and stopped at the table. He wasn't wearing a number or a uniform. He wasn't a part of any sort of group. The man started up a conversation with him, handing him one of the precious Dixie cups. I paced back and forth, hands on my hips, heart in my throat. I don't always like asking for things. Even when I really need them. It's not that I have a problem taking them if the giver says "yes," it's dealing with the rejection whenever they say "no." No, this seat is taken. No, I already have plans this evening. No, there isn't room for you. No, this is meant for someone else.

I hesitantly back track to the man with the water jugs. He sees me right away, discerning in my eyes the question I'm too afraid to ask. "Would you like some water?" he offers. A smile crosses my face. "I'd love some," I respond. I grasped the paper cup, savoring each of my four ounces of water. And then I boldly ask if I can have more. "Of course," the man says, filling my cup. "Thank you," I respond. "Thank you so much."

And that was it. No strings attached. No promotion made. No money exchanged. Just one person blessing another, sharing a gift and asking nothing in return.