The Helper

B.T.C. had to go to Denver this week on business. Since he’s still on crutches (and will be for another three weeks, doctor’s orders) he invited me to come along.

His thinking was that I could help with the luggage, open doors, push the wheelchair...you know, be his helper.

I was delighted to go. I would never pass up an opportunity for a little extra time with this man. Besides, I don't particularly like crawling into an empty bed when he's away.

So an extra ticket was purchased and off we went.

Unfortunately, somewhere along the way it became questionable as to who exactly needed the helper.

So, Mr. B.T.C., I would like to formally apologize for the following:

ONE. Pushing you painfully slow through the airport.

Who knew the wheelchair brakes were ON?

Not me.

I was huffing and puffing, trying desperately to make it look like pushing a grown man uphill on airport carpet was no big deal.

It was a big deal.

I have a whole new appreciation for the wheelchair "pusher." And those moving sidewalks I've walked past a hundred times without giving them a second thought? Bless them.

Naturally, we weren't on one.

TWO. Almost making you miss your flight.

Sorry, babe.

I still don't know why I failed that full-body scanner thing-a-ma-jig. I didn't even have a belt on!

Next thing I knew, I was being whisked away for a full-body pat down while poor Mr. B.T.C. was left to put his own shoes back on, gather all of our luggage, maneuver a wheelchair AND somehow get himself to the gate.

All in about sixty seconds.

So much for bringing me along to help.

I still don't know how he did it, but he made it to the gate and had them hold the flight for his wife—you know, the helper—so she could actually get on the plane and be there to assist him when we landed in Denver.

You can stop laughing now.

It wasn't that funny at the time.

THREE. Nearly tripping you with your own crutch.

This happened as we were leaving the condo on our first day.

I was simply trying to hurry ahead and open the door for you. How one of your crutches managed to catch the heel of my boot, I have no idea.

Good save, by the way.

Sorry again.

And after ALL of this, that night he crawled into bed, wrapped his arms around me, squeezed me tight and whispered, completely sincerely,

"I love having you here."

I know it was supposed to be a romantic moment, but I laughed so hard I could hardly breathe.

"Babe, you must really love me."

Thankfully, day two went much smoother.

I finally got my helper act together.

He did his business thing while I did mine.

And by "mine," I mean reading a really good book. I devoured The Help. Sooo good.

And, of course, I pulled out that good ol' camera of mine and took in Denver through my lens.

First, thank you, Barbie, for letting us stay in your beautiful condo. My favorite part was stepping through the sliding doors onto the terrace fourteen floors above the city.

The views were amazing.

I played with my telephoto lens, zooming in on the buildings and all those wonderful reflections, and pulled out my wide-angle lens for a few shots from my window seat.

I wish I'd taken some nighttime photographs from the terrace, but it was COLD.

And apparently my commitment to photography ends somewhere around freezing-my-fanny-off.

The flight home was quiet and relaxing.

And now it's back to the job I really know how to do...

Being a Mom.

P.S. Mr. B.T.C., if you ever allow me to be your special helper again, just know I'm experienced now.

I promise I'll do better.

P.P.S. Thanks for loving me just the way I am.