Dear Jasmina

Marie-Hélène reached another milestone, somewhere between jumping and a diaper change, and I didn’t notice. In fact, I completely forgot there was going to be a stage where anyone other than the two people who faithfully feed her and laugh when she sneezes, would be treated as strangers… no matter how handsome or wise, or ready to smile, or cuddle or play… I think I forgot because at all other times, she is the most agreable child we know, and it makes us kind of nervous. As much as we’re not supposed to think about these things before they happen, we kind of wonder if the next child we hope will come along (but not right now… thanks), will be her polar opposite just to even things out. Can’t you see it? Some little boy who will be ravenous, and rolly-polly and will scream with us or without us, but who will still manage to melt our hearts if only by the force of his temperament?

So, yesterday, I left her with her grandparents, while she was asleep, to help my uncle who lives an entire 20 minutes away. And once at his place, while we were catching up, the phone rang. I hardly heard it. It’s important to note here that my Unlce only answers calls he expects. I don’t have such discipline and will even answer fax machines. And after the fourth time, during which I figured no telemarketer could be that persistent, my absentmindedness suddenly collected itself to realize that it could be my parents-in-law. And it was. And my mother-in-law simply said: “Listen!” and in the background there were nothing but Ms and Ws and Hs and As (lots of As)… all capitalized. In bold. Underlined.

There was nothing else I could do or say that fit the circumstance, other than that I was coming back. I hadn’t been able to even hear the computer problems I was supposed to fix, or correct the frazzled image of a mom who piles two Starbucks lattes, only to spill one of them on the street – because, you know… making a second trip to collect the cinnamon buns was just out of the question. My Uncle told me not to apologize, and gave me a pep talk. He might have saved the car, because it was only Winnipeg’s second snowfall this season and some part of motherly instinct can become motherly paranoia.

So I listened to calming music, and took my time to stop at red lights, and replayed the part of my Uncle’s pep talk that was “she isn’t dying”, while my parents-in-law were fearing that she could turn blue and cease to breath, and then, what would I do? Apparently, it happens.

I got home, and parked nicely and opened the door to our home carefully, in case a whole pile of Ms and Ws and Hs and As should spill out onto the street. And there she was, our little Marie-Hélène, all pink and sad and wet from tears and sobs. Thirty seconds from the moment I took her in my arms, the wailing stopped and the smiles began and the strangers she woke up to, morphed back into the grandparents she loves to charm, and the laughing audience she jumped for.