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"Just give me fifteen more minutes," Freckles murmured, as his cell phone whined from the nightstand. We had arrived in darkness the night before, and it was still dark. I got up and told him I'd go first.

We were in the basement condo of my parents' former next door neighbor in San Francisco, and, in 25 minutes, our Super Shuttle van was due to pick us up en route to SFO. 

It was 4:45.

Time passes quickly when you're trying to get ready fast -- Freckles was barely out of the shower when the phone rang again -- the van had arrived. We threw things together, zipping up bags, bundling up Baby J, and attempting to placate our own nerves while cleaning everything up.

It turns out, despite their admonitions to come prepared, Super Shuttle doesn't make for easy carseat installation. It doesn't just click. It takes 20 minutes -- which we didn't have -- the fact that the other passengers couldn't manage a "good morning" between them did not bode well for their potential understanding.

"I'll just hold him," I said, giving up completely on the magazine article that had told me to buy an airplane child seat, and that's what I did. We rode on, traveling a virtual tour of my mental midnight homesick hauntings as we slid through the rain, past the silent Victorians of my parents' old home (my first home) in the Castro. There's electricity in that area -- the past, the present, all not quite awake in the chill of early morning. Baby J snored against my chest and I nuzzled into his soft sweet hair. I hate flying, he was beautiful, and I was completely exhausted.

At a certain point, on 21st Street, Freckles and I were the only ones who laughed (juvenile, sure) at the sign warning about the "Speed Hump."

Dawn was just breaking as we pulled up into the airport. I hugged Baby J close. It was so early -- and we'd just passed a car surounded by police cars -- and I loved my family so much.

We checked our luggage, walked to the gate, and boarded our flight to Portland under the rain smeared sky.