I had one hell of a shower for my first born. Numerous gifts were given. I had been to my fair share of showers, both for weddings and babies, and now I wanted a big, fancy one of my own. Kimme had the best house, so she threw it for me with my other BFF, Kimberly. Robin made the unforgettable-to-this-day desserts.
Two of the gifts were what seemed at the time like simple, not-too-much-thought-put-into-it gestures. A white stuffed bear. And a brown stuffed bear.
By the time Oliver was only a few months old, he clung to those two bears — they had become his best friends, his security bears. Before the age of one, he would never leave the house without white and brown bear.
I was hired for a small part in a small movie, on location in Texas. I would be gone a week. Oliver, white bear, brown bear and I boarded a plane. I hired some random local girl to watch my baby while I worked on set. Things went well and I hired her for the following day too. But when I came back to the hotel, brown bear was missing. We went into panic mode, though the teenaged girl seemed way relaxed. I grilled her. “Where were you when you last saw brown bear?” She did seem to recall something about the pool area. It was now evening, dark already and we all went down to comb the pool area. No brown bear. As we were about to give up, I looked into the trash and there he was looking very forlorn, ready to take a trip to the local dump. He would never have been seen again had I not peeked into the trash can. What a relief. Separation anxiety averted.
I’m changing – slowly, but surely, morphing into some life form I no longer recognize as myself. With this neurotic thought stampeding through my mind, I rise this morning and put up a pot of Rose’s favorite coffee—Peets Major Dickason. Despite her penchant to skip breakfast, I prepare a healthful little dish, hoping my angel will think twice: a dollop of non-fat yogurt sprinkled with Urth Café granola and topped with a red glistening strawberry. Into the kitchen she comes, looking every bit the marketing director of an International law firm that she is and the woman whose bras I’m continually picking up off our bedroom floor. I proudly present her the breakfast plate. “Would you mind getting my dry cleaning today, honey?” she asks, walking by me to the coffee pot, where she fills her cup to the brim. I tell her I’ll think about it. A perfunctory peck to my cheek and she’s gone, off to work.