the danger of cookies

I cannot argue with evening cookies at a B&B.

That was the opening thought. The followup thought, which entered contention 24 hours later, is that neither can I argue with an evening cookie plus a glass of Gato Negro burgundy/merlot at the same B&B. These things counterbalanced the slip-ups and near misses as we almost lost Jeff several times over the course of a weekend.

Actually, I think we only almost lost him twice: Once, when Gabe--unaware of the weight that the instruction "watch your dad" now carries--failed to do so in the grocery store, and Jeff skedaddled down the row of cashier lanes after who-knows-who. I exited, to have a look outside and alert my mother to our code orange, while Gabe stood by in the store and soon apprehended his father, who was no worse for wear. The second time was when Jeff balked at the top of the escalator in New Haven Union Station as Mom, I, and about 100 other people took off for track 1 the second they gave us our track assignment. Which was about 2½ minutes before scheduled departure. I was half-way down yelling "Jeff! Get on!" as an anxious crowd formed a clog behind him. With my roll-aboard occupying one hand, and my satchel of paperwork the other, he had to follow me without physical contact.

Mom is no doubt wondering (as she sits just behind me in Amtrak Coach, New Haven to BWI,) exactly how I plan to hang onto Jeff next week, as we depart on our cross-country train trip just as the two of us. The only answer I can supply myself is that--without the presence of a third party to help--my diligence dial will be set at maximum. Additionally, I intend to inscribe or embroider my cell phone number, in large numerals, on his black "sport-band" medical alert i.d.

As for the trip--we come away with the positive sense that Gabe is striding in the direction of independence and adulthood, and it was a fine thing for his grandmother to get a glimpse of his current school and world. I also continue to be impressed that maritime Connecticut is a region I could happily pass a good deal more time in. Mark Twain's house was not enough. I'd very much like to see the Mashantucket Pequot Museum of Native American History (bypassing the Foxwoods casino, operated by the same tribe,) and hit a few choice stops on the Connecticut Wine Trail.

Texts from the home-front indicate that Hazel will not eat her medicated food when I have so rudely interrupted her expectations by vamoosing, but I hope she'll get over it. I am not anxious to institute the wrapped-cat and pill-plunger method of cyclosporin delivery. Hence, I am feeling a tad guilty, especially in light of the fact that we'll be hitting the road again in 5 days. But really...here's the choice: Spend an extra week mollifying a fussy kitty, or experience (for the very first time) a sleeper car. No choice at all. Sorry Hazel.