The (delayed) (extended) Holiday Adventures of Isabel‏

And I mean it when I say DEAR FAMILY:

Thank you, everyone, for everything! We've had so much fun over the holidays!

And, so OK, how about a deep exhale. Again. One more time.

Whewwwwie!

Finally delivered David's Christmas card (and picture) on the morning of Jan. 3, which, to me, was like the official final chapter of this year's holiday story. (David, of course, is the old, sweet Korean guy who lives down the street with whom Izzo's been such good friends for 19 months of her 19.2-month-old life.) Why did it take so long to get him his card? Well, let me tell you: It'd been raining, and we'd been getting up late or getting up in a hurry (which is not the same thing) the week or so before Christmas. And then, I finally met him without Izzo, 'cause she was still, as I typed that at 9:56 a.m. that morning, sleeping off a serious holiday hangover, caused by a long, long list of good, good times which, yes, I'll attempt to record right here ...

CHRISTMAS EVE: Rocked!

But it always does at the Nalbandyans'.

But first: Even though I'd proudly announced that I was just about finished with my Christmas prep a week before the big day -- I lied.

Needed to pick up birdsmilk cake for the big XMas Eve bash, of course. Needed an outfit for Izzo! Needed more wrapping paper after all. Needed, alas, to make one last foray into the shopping madness. Oh, and then I needed stuff at the grocery store to make herring salad with Suzie on Christmas Day. And also to deliver a Christmas card and photo to Izzo's favorite checker, a girl who just about blushes every time she sees Izzo in her line, and always goes, in this order, "Hey, there, Gorgeous! What's going on, Sunshine? Whatchu doin' today, Girlfriend?" as if the two were old, comfortable, lifelong buddies -- which, on one hand, they are. Can't wait to hear what Izzo responds with in a few months. For now it's wide smiles, complemented by some punches and kicks and sometimes a seemingly nonsensical exclamation! Anyway, our checker got a little card and I got a big hug.

To top it all off, it was raining! (Which totally throws Californians, even Californians with college degrees in puddles and splash, off our games.)


Eventually, with Izzo at my side, it all got done. Eventually, we got beautiful. And, eventually, we three headed to Tatik's... where Hamlet slipped a few bites of delicious Armenian-American Christmas Cuisine in between key strokes, buried, as he'd been all day, in the laptop, putting out three different, thick editions on a newspaper deadline that didn't care it happened to be the most festive day of the year at his family's home.


The whole work thing kind of served to color (discolor?) this year's Christmas celebration. First, there was Hamlet breaking his back getting out two days' worth of papers on Christmas Eve, starting at 7 a.m. and not being able to party with us till nearly 11 p.m., which worked out OK, because that's when Kit got off his shift at Palate, too. And so just about everyone who is here was there for the unwrapping frenzy.


Judging by the giant mountain of presents corralled in the corner of the living room, the 12 or 13 of us on hand did our best to jolt the economy a bit. The literal little hill of giving was so substantial, in fact, that it took nearly a half-hour (maybe a record?) to unveil all of the offerings before us -- a good half of which went to Princess Isabel, who, I should say, was just as jolly about watching other folks open their gifts as she was about opening her own. She listened intently so she could join in with the giftees and their audience in the rapid-fire "Oooohs!" that would come from every corner of the room whenever a present was uncovered. She'd stand straight up, smile, clap and cheer, most impressed with the group activity of opening a present than with the concept of her presents.



She did give a few extra glances to both the Duplo (first Lego, baby!) circus set Uncle Kit gave her and, naturally, to the baby laptop (with mouse!) Daddy offered, but even then, she was easily distracted by whatever it was that Melo or Tatik or Uncle Bob or I was about to open...

A few people asked me afterward if she got it. You know, got the whole wish-really-hard-for-something-and-hope-either-Santa-or-the-family-don't-let-you-down thing. Or, at least, the Oooooh-lookit-what-I-got thing. No. On that. But I dare say, from watching her go all Lite-Brite on us, she enjoyed it in a better way. Soaked up the happiness around the room like a sponge. Ate it up and shone it right back at everyone sharing it with her. I'd love it if she kept a little bit of that going at future Christmas blowouts. But we'll see, and I'll be fine with her if she doesn't. She'll have to look out for herself on that big night, of course. But I have a small hunch that she might always get a kick out of watching her family and friends get theirs, too. 'Cause the more I get to know this little girl, the more impressed I am with just how much she seems to care about all of us around her.

Anyway, let's see if I can remember the Christmas Eve tally (disclaimer up front: I can't).

-The laptop
-The Duplo circus set
-All-weather booties (from Melo)
-Several comfy, cute top-and-bottom outfits (from Tatik 'n Papik)
-A couple more very stylish jackets/outfits (from Nana, Tatik, Papik 'n others?)
-Books (Everyone Poops; The Going to Bed Book; Elmo's Holiday Something or Other) (Momomom, of course)
-A Lakers-colored stuffed dinosaur (Melo 'n fam...)
-Kung-Fu Panda DVD (aka, around here, Kung-Fu "Cuckoo!") (Tatik)
-Dr. Suess on tape (Kit, or?)
... there was more. Oh, gosh, there was. But that was a few weeks ago already now. Basically, though, a big success: Ooooooh!!!

CHRISTMAS DAY: The morning wasn't as laid-back and lax as I'd have it, because by the time everyone woke up and discovered Santa had come and not only eaten our cookies, but also left a few more gifts under the mini-tree that Izzo had decorated so prettily one piece at a time, one morning at a time, with Oma's Christmas Advent box, I had left myself just an hour before I had to got to "work," too. And so, in a way, it felt too much like a regular morning, except with the added layer of helping Izzo discover a few more gifts.

Santa brought:

-A big bag of oversized Lego-style building blocks (not Duplo though, sorry Kit, Santa must be feeling the recession too, delivering knockoffs like that... or maybe he just didn't realize how much like Lego without being Lego these things were ...)
-Another book ("Let's Dance, Little Pookie")
-A baseball bat (the sort-of soft Spiderman model?) (watch out, Badu!)
-A puppy! (stuffed, and almost as cute as Gigi-Gigi!)

And that was that. I showered and headed out, just down the road, basically, to Staples Center, where my job was to get video of the Lakers and Celtics talking about their showdown before and after the game, and to turn that into a two-minute video to be displayed on our Web site, PE.com. Cool, definitely. But lonely, too. I ended up sitting all by myself in a short row just behind one of the press areas. Five rows up from the action, four rows behind Snoop and Mrs. Snoop, and in prime position for a pretty thrilling Lakers' victory over the green team that ruined their season in the NBA Finals last year.

But it was weird. I wasn't exactly working during the game because I wasn't exactly reporting, which in itself left me with somewhat of an empty, awkward feeling, not having to actively take notes or develop my thoughts into a semblance of story during the action. I was paying attention, sure. But who wasn't? I got to sit in a very nice, very expensive seat and ... just ... watch. Pretty sweet, except that I was sitting alone, without anyone to turn to to talk about what had just happened except the cell phone, which got a text-message workout in a series of exchanges with Hamlet, whom I could just hear hooting and hollering and scaring our neighbors and being a big crazy, proud example for Izzo, who surely was following his lead, at home...

No, I wouldn't let myself think that I would've rather been at home than at the game, especially because I volunteered the idea, but, OK, I did kind of wish I'd been at home.

When I did get home, Izzo was walking around shouting "Pau! Pau! Pau!," (for the game's hero, Pau Gasol), Hamlet had all but lost his voice, Suzie was already there, too, and that morning's hastily-tidied apartment looked like a tornado had blown through (Christmas relics EVERYWHERE -- so much for Hamlet's promise that if the Lakers won, he'd clean the place for-real). AND I still had a video to work on. Finished with only a few minor technical glitches and got the thing posted a little after 8 p.m., when I got to making the herring salad that we usually eat with Suzie on New Years, to keep the tradition with her alive, if a few days early. (Suzie, for the record, donated a Starbucks gift card to the Izzo Christmas fund -- already, it's gotten a workout, two vanilla milks and two cappuccinos, respectively, for the Princess and her Momomom.)

And that was it, our WHAM! BAM! THANK YOU EVERYONE! Christmas.

But we weren't done celebrating ...

NEW YEAR'S IN OREGON!

Oh, what a trip! And I mean that. In the slang way.

Woke up at 5:30 a.m. on Dec. 28 thinking that by noon, we'd hanging out with Oma, Grandpa, Uncle Ty, (Momom's) Aunt Marla, Uncle John, cousins Grace, Joy and their special guest buddy, in addition to old family friends Robyn and Wilfred, and, of course, Tasje (da Hound). But when we got to the airport, we learned that the time our flight's departure had changed between the time I booked it and the time we arrived at the Burbank airport that morning.

"You didn't check online?"

I hadn't, no. Will from now on, yes. But I thought (and maybe that was my problem: thinking) that because the flight was originating in sunny Burbank, there'd be no timing issues. Plus, every other time I'd flown up there on Alaska it'd been no problem. I'd get there mostly on time, and even the time we were a little late, no problem. Apparently, though, United switches it's takeoff times after clocks fall back, so, yeah, keep that in mind folks.

Looked like we were going to have to spend the day in San Francisco and hop a later, evening flight to Klamath. I was semi-OK with the premise: At least we could get to Klamath that night? Plus, I'm never averse to a family adventure like that -- and because we were being inconvenienced, the woman behind the counter decided not to charge us the ridiculous $15-plus-$15-plus-$25 in bag fees for the three suitcases we went and checked because we figured we'd have enough trouble keeping up with a stroller-less Izzo all day without extra stuff to haul around. But then, we were going to all but miss all the special guests waiting for us at home and scheduled to leave the next day. And, no, flying into Klamath on a tiny plane on a winter night didn't exactly make my stomach easy.

Forget all of that.

We landed in San Fran, walked down three gates to where the flight to Klamath was boarding, explained the situation, hopped aboard our initial flight and got in exactly when we planned to. (Had to go back later for our suitcases, though, 'cause at that point they were flying that night, but that was fine.)

Izzo slept on the flight to San Fran, didn't sleep on the flight to Klamath Falls, and then jumped off the plane and got right to work. Dug right in. Busy like a bee.

So many people to talk to, so many new toys to play with -- and Tasje! TASJE! TASJE! TASJETASJETASJE! (Whose name Izzo was shouting even before the trip whenever she was presented a photo of their last summertime meeting. How Izzo remembered the dog I wasn't sure, but Hamlet chalked it up to Izzo being like him, a dog person.)

Here's guessing that that sweet little dacshund will never hear her name as often as she did during the four-and-a-half days Izzo spent chasing her around, petting her, reading to her, admiring her, dreaming about her, loving her and, mostly, calling for her. All day. From the moment Izzo's eyes opened each morning, the first word out of her mouth was Tasje! A real love affair there between those two.

A real love affair, all the way around. Oma has "watched kids," as we call it, for years and years. Made lots of friends and had lots of fun and, apparently, learned their language along the way. Because when Izzo showed up blabbering away excitedly, a lot to Marla and Joy-Joy, but really to anyone who seemed to be listening, most of us -- including me -- laughed and thought, you know, how cute. Izzo's own little language. Izzo with her oh-so-earnest series of random sounds. Izzo's sweet gibberish. Baby talk from the toddlerbaby. Someday, she'll really say something. And won't that be cool?

And then I watched in shock not long after we arrived as Oma listened and went, "Oh, Izzo, you want some juice?" Izzo smiled, nodded and gladly accepted her juice with a few substantial, satisfied swigs.

Izzo, I realized, HAD asked specifically for juice. Izzo WAS saying something! "Kabemejookabemejooook?" meant "Can me have juice? Can me have juice?"

This happened over and over again while we were in Klamath, Izzo finding my mom and making announcements or requests that apparently sounded pretty much like plain English to my mom but still rang mostly hollow to me, and it rocked my world.

Apparently "venvenposhore" means "we went to the store." And "kabmejookapplesock" means "can me have apple sauce." And "berdetashatasha" is "where's the Tasje?" And so on ...

No. 1: How does my mom do that? No. 2: Oh, poor Izzo! All this time, she's been trying to communicate and her stupid Momomom is like, "Uh-huh, yeah, that's right Izzo."

Can you imagine? Think about asking for someone to pass the salt, or hand you the remote or take out the trash and having YOUR loved ones go, "Uh-huh, yeah, that's right." I'd go freaking crazy.

There were moments, however, when even my mom didn't quite understand. "Servercheserverche!" Izzo would proclaim. "Oh," Oma would say. "Sorry, Izzo. I don't speak Armenian."

Izzo seemed to take big steps forward with her language on the trip, and maybe it's because I started learning how better to listen, or maybe it's because she started getting more confident in what she was saying, what with someone there actually understanding her ... but I swear, her vocabulary was relatively bulging by the time we left.

Like, in Gottshalks one afternoon, toward the end of the outing that also included a tour and very hammy meet 'n greet at Grandpa's library, where Izzo, for some reason, tried telling everyone she met about "Chicago," she was getting tired. So she did as she does and reached up for me, using language even her doofus Momomom can understand, asking to be held. I lifted her up and she let loose a loud, tired sigh and then goes -- no joke -- "Awww, shit!"

I kind of stopped in my tracks, thinking, no, that's so NOT what I just heard. But then Grandpa and Oma both swung around wide-eyed, and we all go, "Izzo!"

And then later, while Daddy and Momom were playing a football board game, Momom threw an interception and said, without thinking, "Well, that sucks." Izzo, standing at full attention at my elbow didn't miss a beat, "Sucks! Sucks! Sucks!" And then she looked up at me with her big, innocent eyes, awaiting my approval. "Oh, no. No no no. That's, uh, too bad! Too bad!"

"Huh?"

That's Izzo's universal, easily understood go-to catchphrase, by the way: "Huh?"

So, friends and family, and Hamlet: New Rule -- Cursing is officially banned in the presence of Princess Izzo.

Back to the day we arrived. Izzo went full-speed ahead from the moment we deplaned till like 8:30 p.m. No nap. No slowing. Just zoooooooom! From one end of the house to the other, bouncing from one person to the next to the next and into the overflowing basket of pretend cooking supplies, which eventually was exchanged for the basket of farm animals, which eventually was exchanged for the basket of blocks, which eventually led to an encounter with yet someone else, who'd retrieve the basket of cars and ZOOOOOOOOM!

She ran out of gas just before dinner and basically slept the rest of the night away -- first slumbering amazingly through the rollicking, wine-drenched conversation just beyond her bedroom and then snugly and much more quietly between Daddy and Momomom in the big bed, where she spent almost all of every night of our stay.

A short stay that also featured one walk in the snow around the house, which Izzo was fascinated with so long as she didn't have to touch it. "Cold!" she'd protest at whoever suggested it. Though she did try to toss a single snowball ... about 2.5 inches forward. Remember, I'm not predicting she'll be a Pac-10 softball player in 17 years.

A too-short stay that, one morning, had her befriending Anneka, one of Oma's babysitting kids and reading champion. Within minutes, she'd taken Izzo by the hand and led her to the couch in the front room, where they sat and read all about the Berenstain Bear family.

A too-too short stay that included an afternoon making cookies (while the rest of us were off watching "Seven Pounds" at the Pelican Theater) with Oma -- who is to be known, officially and formally, from this point in this e-mail on, forever-ever-ever after, as "ABBA."

We got home from the movie and Izzo rushed at us, her hair in perfect little pigtails, a miniature apron tied snugly around her and the clearest, toothiest grin spread from ear to ear. She, naturally, tripped over herself to tell us all about her experience, talking so fast (and probably mixing her languages) I don't think Abba even quite understood. But we got the gist: Izzo had had a blast with Abba!

Here's why that's especially cool: Last time we visited, Izzo learned a new trick. Something we called The Mean Face. And she learned it on my sweet mom, who, yes, has successfully bonded with dozens of children over the years. But for the first time in her then 15-month-old life, Izzo was a bona fide brat -- and to my mom, who, yes, is so proud of her first grandchild she carries around a brag book of photos; who's so happy about her, she's taken to turning these long, rambling correspondences of mine into brilliant, beautiful scrapbook pages; who's contributed Halloween costumes and cash and everything in between already, who's turned her house into an all-out Izzo museum (to Izzo's delight), and, yes, who wishes, each and every time we talk, that we weren't so far apart because she plainly misses us so ... and who was, inexplicably, at the receiving end of Izzo's Mean Face for too much of the previous visit.

Not this time. Izzo was all about my mom -- but here's the thing. WE, evidently, were presenting the situation incorrectly. It ain't Oma, people. It's Abba. Abba Abba Abba.
Izzo seemed to indicate that if we'd labeled her correctly from the start, they coulda skipped the previous beef entirely.

Who knows, but the way it's worked in our family, my mom reminded me, is that the first grandchild gets to name the Oma.

I did it, reworking Oma into Amo -- and now everyone, even some of my Amo's friends I think, refers to her as Amo. Because that's who she is: She's Amo.

So, it would make sense, no? That Izzo would rework Oma into Abba. And so far, it's stuck, because the two times Izzo's talked to Abba on the phone since we got back, she's known exactly who was on the other line, going "Abba? Abba! ... Abba!" and then handing the receiver back to me. Before -- and, OK, fine, that she's gettin' older might have SOMETHING to do with it -- she'd listen and smile and not really know whose voice that was. You'd tell her, "It's Oma!" And she'd respond with a blank look and a confused smile, as if to say, "Ohhhkay." Or you'd ask her to ID Oma in pictures and she almost never would. But now, ask her to point out Abba and in record time, Izzo's pointing and smiling and lighting all the way up.

Oh, gosh.

I want to record everything about the too-too-too-short stay, which is why I've been chipping away at this opus for days instead of just writing up something typically long and overbearing and sending it out for youall to ignore already. These were four super-special days for me, having Hamlet there with us this time, not on vacation, but able to work remotely, which was good (hey, 'least he could be there) and bad (c'mon, he could use a few days off), and generally putting Izzo at ease with his presence. And Izzo, at this age, where she's really beginning to come into her own, really becoming, well, HER. Not that she wasn't her before, but she's more her every day. Hard, or, impossible to explain exactly, so I'll stop trying, except to say I watched Izzo's light grow brighter and brighter there in the home I was raised, and it was lovely, oh so lovely.

Gotta go here, though: New Year's!

That's why we were there, after all.

To celebrate my favorite holiday with my family, take part in the traditional Dutch scene. The herring salad, the deviled eggs (my job!), the apple flappe (sp?), the platter of meat and crackers and anchovies and all kind of other craziness, the pot-and-pan banging and firework show at midnight ...

I recreate it as best I can at home still, but for me, there's nothing like doing it with my family. This is cheesy, but it kinda gave me this little-kid, everything's-gonna-be-all-right feeling, which I found myself treasuring this time around.

Izzo, as I might have mentioned before, is hardly an early-to-bedder. A total night owl, as perhaps I've mentioned, we planned on just letting her stay up for the New Year's festivities, and she had no problem with it.*** The final evening of 2008, she worked in her play kitchen in the TV room while we watched Temecula daredevil Robbie Maddison (who I write about for work every now and again) thankfully not kill himself on his jump-his-motorcycle-100-feet-high stunt. Then she played with Tasje and Abba while we watched the successfully hilarious (to us) "Burn After Reading."

And then, we all got ready to paaaartay.

Rang in 2009 with Izzo in my arm and Hamlet at my side, clinking champagne glasses and sippy cup and then heading out to make a racket and watch squealing fireworks light up the whole snowy street. At first, Izzo's expression told us she was concerned all her grownups had lost our darn minds. But then she got into it, pointing and marveling for a few minutes before going back inside, de-jacketing and grubbing with us on one of her Momomom's eggs and crackers and a little bit of herring salad minus much herring. At 1 a.m., we started to wind down, and though Upright Izzo showed no signs of wanting any part of bedtime, as soon as we laid her down on the big bed between us, she was clap-off out.

And that's how I thought New Year's 2009 would go down ... for about another hour. ***At about 2 a.m., I woke up with Izzo, who just couldn't get comfortable, whose nose apparently was plugging up and who was having binky issues because of it. I tried to stroke her and sing/hum to her, to rock her, tried putting her in her own crib set up next to the bed, tried just about everything I could, but Izzo would settle for only five minutes at a time. At one point, I tried suctioning her buggers (which is not even gross to me, anymore, but sorry, anyway, everyone else), and that served only to infuriate her. And then, at about 5 a.m., I started to hear the very particular whines that meant the night was about to take a turn for the worse. And it did. Let's just say Izzo and I spent the rest of it bundled up on the couch in the TV room, with a little bucket very handy, the only smiles on her drained, pained, beautiful face stemming from an infomercial on teaching 6-month-olds to read.

At around 8 a.m., after putting some Pedialyte and Baby Tylenol in her, Izzo drifted off and slept for a few hours, thankfully. And, thankfully, when she awoke sometime close to noon, it was as if nothing had happened. Thankfully.

I didn't think it was possible, but apparently, Izzo had, in fact, partied too hard.

Craziness.

GOING HOME AGAIN

Lay awake most of the next night trying not to listen to the rain pellets hit the house, propelled forward by howling winds that conjured up memories of our flight from Klamath to Portland two years ago, when I was just pregnant and we'd gone up for another too-short wintertime visit. It'd been storming that night, we'd been in one of those teeny-tiny commuter planes that fly 15 people at a time in and out of K-Falls, on board with maybe the town's most popular resident, O.I.T. hoops coach Danny Miles (who'd just won his, what, 500th?, 1,000th?, 20,000th? game), and for all the flying he does, here's guessing he still remembers that trip, too.

The roller coaster feeling I hate on roller coasters? You know the whole stomach-dropping sensation that you either really dig or really don't? Yeah, that. On a little airplane that gave us a prime view of the propeller fighting its way through sheets and sheets of rain. Everyone I tell this to goes, "Yeah, probably one of those deals where it felt worse than it was." No. Well, maybe. But still, it threw our otherwise-together stewardess to the floor and got her to curse, so.

Anyway. I tried (unsuccessfully) not to think about that. And, well, Grandpa's old motto that things don't turn out all right UNLESS you worry about them (yeah, whatever) proved true again, sort of, because when we got up real early that morning, the sky was turning blue, the rain had moved on, the wind had died away. It was a bit of a beautiful day.

Nice! Except that the storm had moved south, to San Fransisco, and now that airport was closed due to the official aviation term of, ahem, "weather." So, we were stuck. On standby, basically. And because we didn't know when it'd reopen, we were ordered not to leave the airport, so for the next two hours we chilled in the little restaurant upstairs, tried to enjoy a couple of bonus hours with Grandpa and Abba while keeping Izzo awake and happy, so she'd be asleep and happy on the flights home.

When we boarded the first of our two legs back to Burbank, the schedule had us back at 4 p.m. instead of 12:30. Which meant Cousin Nana would be picking us up instead of Uncle Kit. (Try to keep track of our chauffeurs here.)

We got to SFX, which had cleared up spectacularly, at around noonish, happy and dry and ready for lunch. Had some quick Japanese grub, a Japanese beer, got Izzo some juice, let her feast on our veggies -- and the Parmesan cheese packet someone had left on our table beforehand -- found the kiddie play area, ran around/chased Izzo around there, changed a diaper, strolled down to our gate at a little past 3 p.m. and listened for our announcement, which sounded like this ... "Flight 1669 to Burbank has been delayed. There is no crew for this flight at this time." New departure time: 5:25. (And now, Papik was our ride.)

I caught myself looking around at the childless passengers and, for a moment, hating them because, though inconvenienced, they could sit back and spend the next couple hours with a good book and no real worries. I, on the other hand, had an about-to-crack, nap-needing 19-month-old who also believed she needed to touch everything in the terminal. And an uncharacteristically irritated husband who'd had work to do that day, too.

Only one thing that could fix this!

IceCream!!!!

So I marched the cranky family back down the terminal hallway, back to the food court area and ordered one scoop of gourmet chocolate ice cream. And Izzo forgot she ever considered being upset as she traded bites with Momomom.

One one other thing that could fix this!

Computer!!!

Hamlet found an outlet in which to plug our new iBook and started up the video player so we could all scrunch together and watch videos of, who else, Izzo! And then, after an hour or so of IceCream! and Izzo! a not-so-little 15-month-old showed up with his dad, who wanted to share our outlet (of course he could) to charge his phone. Izzo and Lucas -- the son of a Spaniard and a Californian now living in Vermont -- checked each other out, followed each other around, showed off a bit and eventually attempted giving each other hugs.


When Lucas and his Daddy left for the men's room, I chatted with his mom about Vermont, traveling with a baby to Spain/Holland, but mostly about daycare and a little about sippy cups. Then they were off to find the play area where Izzo'd worn Momom out hours before.

IceCream. Movies about her. A new friend. Izzo was a happy camper. This delay stuff was cool.

Another wet diaper change (good thing I'd brought enough of 'em!) and we were off to finally catch our plane. Lined up with everyone else and at 5:24, another announcement: "Flight 1669 to Burbank has been delayed." The plane we'd be using wasn't in San Francisco yet. Five minutes away, apparently. And then all that needed to happen was for the passengers to get off, the crew to tidy up and do their safety check we'd be on our way ... except that the safety check revealed some minor service needed ... and five minutes turned into 20 minutes and 20 minutes turned into another 20 minutes and so on. (And now Papik couldn't get us, so ... Arka, where you at?!)

The angry passengers took all their frustrations out on the poor United employee relaying all these messages from her exposed position under the bad-news board that kept repeating the hilariously obnoxious "Thank You for flying United" on its "breaking news" ticker -- right after the real news regarding the latest delay. At every new delay, one man would make snide, loud, bullying, third-grade comments. And people would laugh. Other folks would continually walk straight up to her and straight-up complain. All to a soundtrack of looped groaning and sighing and more sighing. It all hit the fan, toward the end of this woman's shift -- that's how long we were there -- when she cracked, started crying, grabbed the mic and made a final announcement that was a little like Tina Fey's would be at the Golden Globe's a few weeks later, when she told her critics, "You can suck it."

Izzo, though, was oblivious to all the drama and hard feelings. Well, sort of. Let's try that again. Izzo, however, was ecstatic about all the drama and sour feelings!

Folks often ask, "What's her favorite toy?" And I say, "You." And they go, "Huh?" And I go, "You, as in people. Her favorite thing, really, is the game of people: "Can I make this guy smile? Cool. Can I make that girl smile? Agh. Can I make him? Yeah!'" I'm not saying that's unusual for someone her age, but really, it's her thing. Dating back to our daytrip to Amsterdam months ago, when she befriended half the population of that crazy city, it's been her thing.

So. Here she was. In an airport terminal FULL of people, spilling onto the carpeted walkways and leaning on trash cans as far as the eye could see. And all of them playing her game! All of them unsmiling, each presenting a brand-new challenge. Dude: AWESOME!

And though Hamlet and I tried to suppress her bold forays, she managed to get the job done most of the time. I can still picture a blond, middle-aged guy staring into space, lips pursed -- until he spotted wobbling, giggling Izzo in his periphary. Ding! Ding! Ding! Izzo got a big grin from him. Then there was a tired-looking, loving-looking couple, maybe a few years older than Hamlet and I, who couldn't take their eyes of Izzo, and couldn't wipe the happy-despite-it-all looks off their faces once they discovered her.

Izzo even tried, at one point, to join another family. Two young brothers were playing a circular game of tackle football in the space where we'd be lining up to board, if we ever lined up to board -- and Izzo wanted in on the action. She chased them around shouting, alternately, "touchdown!" and "football!" And they completely, completely, completely ignored her. Which I found astonishing, because the right thing to do might've been to tell her, "Look, Pipsqueak, scram!" But then the pretty little girl standing nearby holding the pretty little doll told me these two little guys might just be desensitized to a little girl getting in their business. The little girl, however, had the Look-Pipsqueak-scram face nailed, because the few times Izzo broke from the huddle she wasn't a part of to venture toward that doll and her "mommy," that's the look she got.

But here's the awkward part: Through it all, the three kids' parents, clearly among the more annoyed of the bunch, paid absolutely no attention to their kids, my kid or me, trying to keep Izzo out of their personal fracas. And that's with Hamlet yelling at me every few seconds, so the whole terminal could hear, to "Get Izzo over here!" and away from them. And I tried, because clearly (thankfully) this family didn't have any interest in taking in Izzo, but I tried in a way that I hoped would keep the game alive for her. Because if I were to have just said, Cut!, cold turkey, I know I'd have a wailing, protesting toddlerbaby who might realize exactly how tired she was. And that, to me, was the last thing this part of the building needed. Plus, there was sort of an audience for Izzo's oh-so-earnest, consistently rebuffed attempts to reach out to these kids. It was a little bit of entertainment for these people, Rugrats meets Wile E. Coyote: Izzo chasing, chasing, chasing forever in vain and totally oblivious.

Thankfully, that's when Sophia stepped up. A 4-year-old with glasses and a big heart, a part-time resident, with her theater producer mom and screenwriter/playwrite dad, of both San Luis Obispo and Taiwan. Sophia spoke English, Mandarin AND Izzo! Right away, she offered Izzo a little stuffed animal from her backpack, like, literally (and without asking her mom) OFFERED it to Izzo. And Izzo took it -- and threw it back at her. And these two giggling little chicks proceeded to play catch for the next few minutes. Until curiosity got the best of Izzo, and not knowing better, she plunged her arm into her new friend's backpack looking for what else might be in there. No, no, no Sophia explained gently, before leading Izzo in play for the final 15 minutes of our stay while I chatted with her mom about daycare/Tatik's and children's innate ability to understand and befriend one another. (SOME children, I decided, thinking about the kids who'd been too cool for Izzo a little while before.)

And then there was the woman who approached me just before we were set to actually, finally board. "It must be hard," she said as ominously as she could, "to have such an ugly, anti-social baby."

I was so beat that it took me a good two seconds to recognize the sarcasm dripping from her statement. And then I laughed pretty hard, partly at myself, partly at how she'd put it. That was great. One of those lines I'll remember forever.

We boarded at around 7 p.m., took off a little after. Sophia sat right in front of us so I had to do the rudest thing possible and hold up the emergency instruction card so Izzo wouldn't see her, so Izzo ... would ... fall ... asleep. And she did before we hit the air, as I tried hard to follow her lead, annoyed to hear the crackle coming from the cockpit, the captain ready to make an announcement about cruising altit -- wait, what had he just said? We were making our approach into Burbank? Wow, I'd been asleep, too.

... and of course, the adventure wasn't over. One of our bags -- with all of Izzo's Christmas clothes, and Abba's Christmas bread, and Hamlet's computer parts, among other items such as our toothbrushes -- failed to arrive. We didn't feel like waiting around another hour for the flight it was coming in on. Heard they'd be able to deliver it late that night, filled out the paperwork an headed on home, with a quick pitstop at the Carl's Jr. drive-thru window. "Sometimes, it just feels good to stuff your face," Hamlet said in between bites of burger, which we shared with an equally hungry Izzo, who evidently had watched too many Carl's Jr. commercials, ads which often feature their products drip, drip, dripping and making a big tantalizing mess, 'cause she managed to open a container of ranch and coat herself, head to waist, in the white sauce. "Mirjam!" Hamlet shouted after me when I'd gotten up, "Izzo's albino!"

Bathtime at 11:20 at night. That night. Terrific.

And then, because I'd forgotten her clippers on the trip and Izzo was being so good and I'd lost my darn mind already, a quick manicure.

And then, Izzo bounded back off the couch, stomping and singing and still riding the day's substantial adrenaline high. We scooped her up and MADE her sit next to Hamlet and CALM DOWN, at which point she barfed a little, clearly, physically ex-haust-ed.

So I cleaned her up, picked her up and you know those dolls that close their eyes when you lay them back, open them when you lift them up, close 'em when you lay them back? Yeah? That was Izzo. The moment I layed her horizontally in my arms, she was asleep. And she slept, as you read way, way above, till past 10 the next morning (... when we'd head back to the airport to check in on the bag that a United rep on the phone told me they'd by then lost track of, drove right back to the scene of the crime -- only to get pulled over and ticketed for driving too fast en route. All part of the too-too-too-too-fast trip, apparently.) And then. The bag, we learned, had just left to be dropped at our house, so we drove back quickly, without hurrying, and got there to receive it.

And that was that. A big, fat holiday to remember, which is why I went and wrote so much of it down, I guess.

Now I'd love to write about all the news in the two weeks-plus since I started working on this thing, like Izzo wanting to pick out her own clothes on some mornings; Izzo being able to count to three (first in the bath, then out of it); Izzo actually reading from a Dr. Suess book; Izzo and her Eskimo kisses; Izzo smashing her face against the coffee table so hard I had to hand her over to Daddy on account of the blood dribbling from her nose (she's fine, she was fine in two minutes); Izzo having so much fun at Tatik's she doesn't want to leave in the evenings; Izzo being beautiful Izzo.

But I'll spare you those details, for now. And say, again, THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR EVERYTHING!

Lots and lots and lots of LOVE.

Us