It's been that kind of couple of days. If you were one of the people at Gate 8, San Jose Airport, yesterday at 4:10 p.m., I'm not sure if I should apologize or ask why the hell you didn't toss crumpled 10's and 20's into my open carry-on as due compensation for the performance art provided by the preboarding spectacle that was:

• me;
• my unnapped child, kicking like fury under my right arm, mostly horizontal but partially upside down, wet, and angry;
• our stroller, unladen with child but bearing carry-ons annoyingly lightened by the gulag that was Norman Y. Mineta San Jose International security, ultimately breaking free, careening into the side of the jetway en route to the plane, dumping its contents right on cue; and
• the Southwest ground crew member who thought it perfectly reasonable under such circumstances to have me sign something related to gate-checking the stroller.

Once we boarded the plane my portable hurricane transformed into Mr. Sunshine, go figure. And, almost three years old and done nursing for some time, tonight, half asleep, he made me go dig out his old nursing pillow and install it in its formerly useful position, "around your tummy!," before he'd turn in. He didn't climb up on it, just wanted to know it was there. It's impossible to hold a grudge against such a creature.