I had the unfortunate privilege of taking my husband to the airport this morning. The problem was not the early morning. The problem was not that I had only slept for about 4 hours, interrupted. The problem was that I had to take him to the airport and leave him there. To go home and wait for me for 2 weeks.
Our baba is only 2 months old. That's 73 days. All of those spent in sleepy, loved-up bliss. And our trip to the airport suggests the start of at least 14 days apart. Ouch.
Realising this, my heart became big with tears. You know, aching chest, lumpy throat. As I stood by the security check point, separated from the love of my life by a semi-frosted pane of glass, I simply couldn't keep my heart from overflowing. I picked my baby up for comfort. Yes, I tried to use my daughter to comfort me.
An older lady, keeping a quiet eye on me, came over and offered to look after my pram so that I could get closer to the glass, to say bye. When I came back, she took my baby from me and held her, so that I could calm down. A friendly pat on the arm aided my calming.
I'd never met her before. And in a country where we are forever watching our backs and personal contact seems a lot like reckless behaviour, this stranger was simply perfect.
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