Kintropy In Action

Having recovered from the cold (after 20 hours of sleep), I headed out to Fred Meyer today.  A toy was stuck in my mind.  It's a combo mirror/music maker/dance thing I saw online.  Amazon promised 1-3 months wait; Fred Meyer, conveniently, had it sitting on the shelf, waiting for me.  I grabbed it, threw it under an arm (a rather big box), and headed to check out.

This was Hannah's gift.  Gabriel is rather easy to shop for these days.  If it's a video game, or if it ties into Star Wars, he's good.  Hannah is another story.  Does it sing?  Can she operate it with gross motor?  Does it have some fine motor, too.  Most importantly, can I see her enjoying it and playing with it for hours?

The big box under my arm seemed to fit the bill.  I traded pleasantries with the cashier.  She dropped the box.  We laughed at the instant stress test.  I swiped my card, and I headed toward the door.

A man passed me.  He looked harried, tired.  He wore a wool jacket.  A white sticker shouted at me from below his jacket's lapel.  NICU #3**.  I passed him quickly and he, me.  Even if I had turned to say something, he wouldn't have seen me.  He was preoccupied.  He was making the quick run:  a father, inbetween home and hospital, grabbing an essential. 

Hannah's gift was still tucked under my arm.  I had refused the bag:  my one nod today to the environment.  If I could have turned to him, I would have said.  Almost four years ago, I was you.  My daughter went in for eight hours of testing and stayed two weeks.  The hosptial released her with a g-tube, some oxygen, and best wishes.  Now I'm bringing a gift home to her to put in the closet for safekeeping until Chanukah.  She's at home now, probably watching her music videos, clapping a demand for the music to continue. 

Everything is possible.

We passed each other.  NICU sticker.  Tired man.  Wool jacket.  In a hurry.

I walked out the automatic doors.  I found my van and unlocked it remotely.  I loaded Hannah's big box in the seat next to me.  And I drove home.

-- Dad