Sometimes Ada moans frightfully in her sleep, or catches her breath like she’s wrestling with a nightmare, then wakes with a startling cry. It's a bit haunting, actually. We try to wake and calm her before things go too far. It makes us wonder what a baby could possibly have to dream about, and why nightmares? What could they dream of, except those things they carry into this life: the knapsack of their subconscious full of the relics of past lives.
Late last night Ada cried convulsively, as though from some deeply pained place, all the hurt of humanity twisting up from it — the poor girl red-faced and arms snapping. Anna and I took turns with her, both too tired to curse. Where does the convulsion come from? Or is it nothing more than a bb of gas passing through? That tiny pain a holocaust to her? Or some ancient memory of a holocaust?
Then a calm night's sleep, and in the morning she's curled against Anna softly as a rabbit, awake as her mother sleeps, cooing to herself, big eyes looking about the room contentedly, studying the old painting of poppy flowers above the bed, a smile hooking up one side of her mouth, our room a world of beautiful fantasy to her. I don’t know what tires you more as a parent, the lack of sleep or the course of emotions you’re run through.
Anna’s mother Claudia is here for the week. After busy days of helping us with chores about the house, we called it quits and made a trip to Montara Beach. Ada’s first visit to the ocean! The wind was blowing so we set up my one-man tent as a refuge and made a picnic lunch. Afterwards I carried Ada – to mild protests from mother and grandmother – down to the water's edge. She strained to look about at everything, the sandy pock-marked cliffs and the pale cloud-shredded sky, the tan beach arching away before the crashing waves tumbling in like falling mountains. I went in shin-deep, reached down and brought up a palm of water, which I lightly poured over Ada's head. Her face soured and she began to cry as I put my pinky into her mouth so she could taste the water running down her cheeks. Then I said a little prayer aloud to her and the thrashing sea, asking for it's blessing, that the waters of the world be with her and grant her their steady strength. I'm not a religious man, and if I was I'd fall closer to animist than any other. But I'm just superstitious enough to want to cover my bets and keep the sea on our side. Call it a pagan baptism. Soon Ada quit crying and began looking about again, her blonde lashes sparkling as she blinked against the sharp light. I gave her a kiss, told her she was a good girl, a good tough water girl now, with all the world and its waterways of travel before her, and brought her back to momma.
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