One month shy
Dear Adam,
Today you are eleven months old. Do you realize what this means? Of course you don’t. Advanced as you may be, mathematical calculation such as fractions is still a bit beyond you. But your mama and papa (yes, words you know and can use now!) know: you are just one month away from being a year-old human being. Amazing.
As I write these joyous words to you, Adam, I have just one question: WHERE ARE YOU? You were supposed to be here with me today, but instead you have chosen to remain 1,106 kilometers to the north. Okay, “chosen” is not exactly accurate. In the last month you have shown us that you can make choices of your own, for example hrenovke over broccoli, or chewing on your Air France rabbit versus inserting your wooden construction equipment puzzle pieces into their jobsite, but this staying in Poland bit is not your choice. Last night, just as I was about to step out the door to drive to the airport in Ljubljana to pick up you and your mother, the phone rang. I could practically feel the vibration of frustration coming down the line as your mum told me that your flight had been cancelled for, “I don’t know, MECHANICAL problems or something.” I know that you had a long day yesterday; it’s not an easy drive from Toruń to the Warsaw airport, let alone back again, so I hope you’re having a restful eleven-twelfths day today, because you’ll have to do it all over again tomorrow. Though hopefully not the back-to-Toruń part. For the last two weeks and a day, my daily contact with you has been limited to my mobile phone wallpaper. You really should learn to operate some kind of IM program, like your mama does.
What an autumn. You are at the stage where the transition from baby to boy is most interesting to watch. Last month I mentioned what a good stander-upper you have gotten to be, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve learned to walk in the two weeks (and may I add A DAY) you’ve been away with your mama visiting your Polish grandparents. Your mother promised to lie to me if you did manage it so that we can maintain some sort of fiction about me being there to see you take your first steps. Maybe tomorrow I’ll see you do it and never know the difference. In the last two months you and I have spent as much time apart as together. This is not right, but it couldn’t be avoided: first I had to go back to the U.S. because your grandfather there was ill, and now you’re up in Poland visiting your other grandfather and grandmother, and your uncles and aunties and many friends. Your mum has told me that you have been an utter angel throughout the visit, which makes her look like a complete liar to her family. We know better, but apparently the monsterhood you’re capable of is going to stay a secret among us three.
This is the second monthly progress report in a row I’ve had to write in the shadow of having been apart from you for fully half of the month in question. It’s not easy, with all the missing and rudderlessness of being your father in absentia, but being away from you does give me a little added perspective about how much I love you and how much I define myself by being your papa. Please hurry home. But Adam — don’t get on any planes with equipment problems. Your mama is smart about this. Trust her. I miss you both like kidneys.
