The Ghost of Us Past — The Wee Wanderer

A vignette of me, a Seattle transplant, packing for a 10-day trip home to see my family in New York over Christmas with Travis and Levi: My massive suitcase will probably exceed the 50-pound limit. No matter. I need all the things: Running gear times 3. Yoga outfits times 5. Should I bring hiking clothes? Might we go Nordic skiing? Should I bring two novels, or just one? How many skeins of yarn? In my imagination, when I am not at a yoga class or running, I am on my mom’s couch, knitting or reading Michelle Obama’s memoir. In my imagination, I am vaguely aware of my son’s presence, but Grammy is 100% in charge of him. In my imagination, I am vaguely aware of my husband’s presence, but Grammy is in charge of him too, making dinner, cleaning, doing laundry, all the things. In my imagination, these 10 days will kick-start me into a new routine and give me a new “lease on life,” whatever that means.

Ultimately, the bag weighed in just under the limit, and I sent it off in the hopes that for 10 days, I would be able to commune with the spirit of Old Sarah, in the traditional garb of Lululemon and Nike, unobstructed, disenfranchised, sweaty, happy, free.

In reality, we arrived late on December 23rd, enjoyed one full day of frantic last-minute shopping on Christmas Eve, and on Christmas Day, Levi got the flu.

All ready for Christmas, right before the first in a long line of up-chuck sessions.

While Old Sarah was doing Downward Dog in some netherworld, New Sarah was cleaning up vomit here on Earth. Old Sarah was training for a marathon in the sky. She was reading. Knitting a blanket. Standing in line at Starbucks. New Sarah was hunched over a Pack N’ Play at 2 a.m., singing Old MacDonald, getting increasingly angry at Old Sarah, whose apparition kept prancing through the room, in full yoga regalia, venti Starbucks in hand, heedless of the tribulations of her future self.

To my immense pride, Levi did manage to keep down an entire slice of New York pizza before we left.

I flew back to Seattle like a dog with its tail between its legs, pathetically tucking my clean athletic gear back in the drawer, cursing Old Sarah, and hoping that Grammy’s next visit wouldn’t be far off.

And it wasn’t. Grammy has flown to our rescue countless times since Levi was born. She arrives, she makes herself at home, she demands that Travis and I go out to dinner. This is the birthright of all new parents, which we transplants sacrifice in the name of. . . umm. . . I honestly can’t remember. I ask you: What could possibly be more compelling than this optimum childcare situation?

Grandma meeting wee Levi for the first time last Spring

Every time Grammy visits, Old Sarah comes too. For Grammy’s last trip, Travis and I planned an epic day hike along the Spray Park Look in Mount Rainier National Park. (Perfect itinerary for the sleep-deprived parent, no?) We left our house at 7 a.m. to tackle this 16-mile monster, which kicked our old-parent butts, in a good way.

About two thirds of the way through the Spray Park Loop for our day “off.” Check out our happiness!!

This time, Travis wanted to do all the things: We started out with a trail run through Cougar Mountain, Old Sarah’s stomping grounds, just to see if we still had it in us (we did). Then we had an enormous brunch accompanied by several Bloody Marys (we still had it in us!), followed by shopping, the movie Free Solo, and dinner (at a 21+ restaurant, just because we could) during which we discussed the possibility of raising Levi out of the back of a van like the star of the movie (we decided we did not have that in us). At the end of the night, tired in a different way, we arrived home to find Grammy waiting up for us with a dozen Levi stories to share.

They say it takes a village to raise a child, and although we have an incredible tribe of indispensable friends and neighbors who have become a pseudo family, there is nothing like kin when it comes to good, old-fashioned help. One of my high school girlfriends, who has two kids now, recently told me that she and her husband were thinking about leaving New York. “Are you crazy?” I shouted over the phone. “Your mom lives there!” (Apparently, living close to family has its pluses and its minuses.)

As for me, I live for the next visit with family, and I hope each time that Old Sarah can make an appearance as well. Up next is a 5-day trip down to Tucson to visit Grandma (running shoes times 3 plus 2 skeins of yarn); Grammy’s next visit is exactly 2 weeks later (Yoga workshop? Bookstore hopping? Day drinking?? Yes, yes, and yes!)

As long as Levi doesn’t need immediate medical attention, I will welcome Old Sarah with open arms. Even though for the record I think she’s a total asshole most of the time.