Once, about a decade ago, I babysat my nieces and nephews while my sister and brother-in-law went for a much-needed dinner date. Around eight o’clock, probably an hour after my sister left, the youngest, a girl, began to tell me that she missed her parents. Holding her on my lap at the top of the stairs (at the bottom of which was the front door), I tried to reassure her that her parents would be home soon. Then, with all the drama a three year-old could muster, she frowned and clarified, “But I weally, weally miss them. I mean, I weally, weally, weally miss my pawents.”

I thought of her yesterday when the hobbit was whining and banging on the table (as he recently has taken to doing way too often for my taste) and I became aware of a weally, weally, weally big wave of my own missing swelling inside me – that of missing my Life Before Hobbit. As he banged and whined, I removed myself to the sink and began to wash dishes aggressively while his dinner warmed on the stove. I was wobbling between asking him politely to stop banging and ignoring him, between scolding him sternly and walking right over to the table to bang bang bang it until my fist could bang it no more. Various tips from various parenting books flitted around inside my head like flies and all at once I was feeling terribly annoyed and terribly guilty for feeling annoyed. I was feeling a lot of things actually, and all of them seemed to be boiling boiling in the great pot of my stomach. I thought of clicking my heels three times, but then I realized I didn’t in that moment believe there was “no place like home”. (After all, where is home anyway? And is it really so great?)

And then the hobbit grabbed the plate of cheerios in front of him and tossed it onto the floor.

*

Have you ever noticed how often people talk about the weather? I have. For some time now I’ve been noticing it, starting, probably, back when I was in college, and underslept, and of a mind to observe and analyze just about any human interaction in search of sincerity and meaning. A conversation would turn to the weather, and I’d think, dismissively: Don’t these people have anything better to talk about?

Now that I’m older and a wee bit wiser (she writes, hopefully), I see how short-sighted and naive I was back then. (And, yes, snooty in my dismissiveness, but please forgive me for not wanting to get into that just now.) Indeed, since those snooty days, I have weathered nearly two decades of adulthood and in that time have come to respect the weather greatly for its unfailing ability to rescue conversations from all sorts of extending silences. I’ve come to realize that whatever substance the weather lacks as a topic, it more than makes up for in goodwill. It is something all humans respond to. It bridges linguistic, cultural, political divides, and it can often lead a conversation to commonalities that might otherwise have gone undiscovered. It is evocative, the weather, and it is handy in taxis, in foreign countries, on ferries. It brings far away friends closer. It makes taciturn farmers gregarious. It is, simply, good, the weather, and I hope the next time you find yourself commenting on the cold and gray or that lovely evening last night, you revel in the connection you are making with another human being.

(Now, you are probably asking yourself what this has to do with anything. Well, the answer is not much. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about lately.)

(And, by the way, in case anyone is interested, the weather here today was bright, sunny and fully June-appropriate. The birds were happy, the insects were busy, and I was busy and happy.)

*

Speaking of connections, today I connected via email with an old friend who’s a reporter currently based in Iraq. According to his email, he’s spending his time getting to know soldiers, covering court martial hearings and contemplating the beginning of civilization on the banks of the Euphrates. He says it is hot where he is. Hot, and dusty, in case you were wondering. You can read one of his more recent dispatches here.

*

Speaking of dusty, the hobbit and I were stuck in traffic today. We were driving along that highway I mentioned in my last post. The one that cuts through the valley and is lined on either side by cultivated fields. Men were working in the fields, which were very, very dusty. Some were riding on the back of a big tractor like thing dropping something, presumably seeds of some sort, into the soil. Behind them, three others walked along with hoes possibly, something that was used to push the seeds in. Honestly, it was difficult for me to tell what, exactly, they were doing. (I was driving after all, and how many times do I have to admit that I really am a city kid, despite the rancher relatives? I mean, I wish I knew more about agriculture, I really do. But the fact is I know very little. Ho, hum.) Anyay, as I sat there praying that the poor, hot little hobbit could keep on happily babbling in the back there until we reached our destination, I was also watching the dust that was rising off the field where the men were working. Mixing with the heat, the dust formed a blurry band of light that stretched about ten feet into the air and looked to be the work of some special effects department somewhere. And the men – with their baseball caps and bandannas and rounding shoulders – as I watched them work, I wished I had the guts of my reporter friend. I so wanted to go into those fields, introduce myself and ask those men a few questions about their lives. I was thinking about them being immigrants, and wondering if my immigrant experiences resembled theirs in any way. I doubted it. After all, I was welcomed in England, I spoke the native language and I never made my living doing field work under the blazing sun. Still, I was hopeful we might find some common ground, and I figured that, if nothing else, we could talk about the weather. But then the traffic moved forward and I went with it.

*

Today, Thursday, was a good day. The husband woke me up early with a cheerful long-distance call and instead of going back to bed I got up, made myself a large cup of coffee and did some writing and some emailing. The hobbit woke up an hour and a half later in a good mood. We had a happy morning, free of whining and banging. And so it went. I talked to a friend who’s also momming and cherished her understanding. We laughed. The hobbit laughed. We got stuck in traffic on the way to pick up my niece and nephew and there was no whining or banging there either. For lunch we ate Mexican food with the niece and nephew and then the niece and nephew pushed the hobbit around in a shopping cart while I did errands. Later, the hobbit played in the car while I cleaned it. We had neither banging nor whining at dinner and after dinner we did the bath time dance, cracking ourselves right up. Before bed, the hobbit kissed a picture of his dad. We read a pop-up book and The Cat in the Hat. And then I fetched myself a large glass of wine, chatted with my sister while making my dinner then sat to watch the rest of the day play out over the lion’s paw in the distance. I listened to public radio via the internet. I read an email from a dear friend in London.

I wrote.