Sticky Subject

I say goodbye. I kiss her. I try to get a hug. She isn’t into it, but she giggles as I shower her with kisses. “MOOOMEEEE!!!!”. "Okay,” I say. “ mommy’s going now just like we talked about. I’m going to miss you SO much!”. “NOOOO!” She kicks her feet into the carseat. “I love you, baby! I’ll miss you. Have fun with daddy!”. She wails and I grab Thomas and apologize for leaving. He waves me off and hugs me. I feel this sense of belonging. “These people need me” a voice inside whispers. I don’t look back but I can hear her working it out with Thomas.

I’m off to Halifax for work. To shoot some spots I wrote for Tourism Nova Scotia. We’re filming at locations all over so it’s going to be fun getting to know the province a bit better since I write about not all the time.

It’s so odd. Leaving. I usually love it. I don’t often look back. I walk inside the airport and look around. I only have my things with me. There’s no diaper bag. Or mountain of snacks I’ve brought along. Just me. Just my luggage.

I check in. The airport is busy on a Saturday afternoon. I stroll. I look at the shops. Every restaurant has the same three sandwiches. It’s like the Simpsons. Every third house is the same.

I go through security. I don’t have to explain the milk, sunscreen, and cream that’s over 100mls in our diaper bag. There’s no diaper bag. Before I step through security, the guard asks me to take out anything I might have in my pockets. “I don’t have any!”, I say back. I’m wearing my Aritzia catsuit. A choice I would never have made if I was on mom duty. Toddlers need pockets. My pockets. It’s just me and my bag now. It’s quick. I go to the gate and pull out my book.

It's incredibly odd. How quickly I slip back into Gab mode. The only difference is I notice every shriek and cry around me. Before, my ears were not attuned to them. A mom waits with her squirmy toddler in line in front of me. “Can you leave that garbage on the ground, please?” She pauses. He goes for it. “Ah, garbage isn’t a good toy baby.” I’ve heard those words come out of my mouth. Thomas and I usually let her pick it up and put it in the bin. We choose our battles. The little boy bolts and tries to get on the plane. His mom patiently waits, smiling at him hoping her lack of reaction will reel him back into line. She’s impressive. He makes it clear he’s not coming back. She turns to me “is it okay if we jump back in line once I catch him?” All I say is “mine’s two.” She laughs and runs after him. Mom code.

We board the plane. There’s a threat for a storm but no one seems concerned. I’m a nervous flier but I don’t show it. It’s all out of my hands. I’ll just eat my almonds and pretend I’m not doing deep breathing and letting thoughts of us going down flood my mind. I breathe and take out my book. A book I’m about to read with both hands.

I rifle through my bag looking for earphones. They’re behind these stickers I packed for one of my colleagues. I don’t know why, but I’ve decided he doesn’t like me. Or at least he hasn’t bought into the hype. One of those fun stories with no evidence that I’ve fabricated in my mind to make myself feel crappy. while I was packing and looking for a notebook to bring with me I stumbled upon my collection of stickers from the Van’s World Tour circa 2002. He’s a designer and a punk fan, maybe they’ll be of interest?

I remember how I have a little habit of gifting stickers to people that don’t stick. As a child, I’d go to the sticker factory and buy these huge rolls of Sandy Lion stickies. Giant ones. Fuzzy ones, Sparkly ones. Scratch and sniff ones. I’d gift a ticket or two from the roll to pals I wanted to know I cared about them. I guess they were a bad metaphor for how I hoped those people would stick around for good. A gift with a meaning that only I understood. “I’d think Hey, when you see these, please think of me.” I wonder why I assumed I’d be so quickly forgotten? I guess old habits die hard.

I resolve not to give them to him. it’s too pathetic. I pack them anyway. Just in case things get awkward.

Then I decide it’s okay. It’s okayyyy if I try to buy his love with a vintage sticker from a forgotten festival circuit. Does anybody even remember the Transplants? I tell myself it’s okay to want to be liked. Even if that acceptance isn’t really what I’m looking for. It’s hopeful at the most, icky at the least. And both are okay. It’s human to want to be liked, accepted. And if I go a little too hard for that, whatever. I was never out here pretending I wasn’t a bit needy. At the very least, when Ruth inevitably finds heartbreak on the schoolyard, I’ll have a fun anecdote to share with her. One about stickers and chasing people who were never meant to stick.