Hot Skype

Do you wanna skype tonight? the Docta writes.

I could be in for a little hot skype, I reply.

At 7 p.m. you gotta accept my invitation ok?

Word.

A cyber rendevouz with the Docta from portals 11,000 miles apart.

Skype is a new verb in our household since good ole Uncle Nate and Aunty Bee from the Bay area bought us our first webcam in December. We don't see them enough so skyping brings their daughter little Miss Ruby into our living room in the virtual flesh, first crawling and now walking. In turn, the G makes his own live debuts at their house playing the bongos they sent him for his birthday or shaking it in his tightie whities.

In this way the world has become that much smaller.

Isn't it strange that we spend most of our young lives sharing intimate space with family that soon become people we see once or twice a year. People who once stood shoulder to shoulder next to us as we brushed our teeth, washed our faces and kissed each other goodnight.

So we skype England as often as we can too. We want the G to get to know his Great Granddad and Nan as moving, waving, blowing kisses, three dimensional people who love him.

Tonight fresh from his bath the G gets ready to skype the Docta in Australia for the first time...
When the Docta appears full screen my heart starts to fly like when we first started dating. What is up with that? It's been like nine measly days and now I'm a love starved teenager again. His hair is all tousled, Billy Idol style, I notice.
Did he use product? I gasp. Before he left on his trip his "stylist," yes the man has a stylist not a barber, gave him a wild cut that requires goo.
You'll never put that gunk in your hair, I told him.
You see the Docta sometimes forgets to wear deodorant so "sauces" as he calls them have no place on his side of the medicine cabinet or so I thought. The kid is still full of surprises after 16 years together.

Hey, hey where's my big boy? the Docta calls out, so strange to see him flooded in bright sunshine while the night creeps in on our side of the world.

Dada! Dada! the G gets his headsets on, kicking his feet wildly under the table.

Control tower come in, the G shouts into the microphone.

Pilot G your clear for take-off.

Immediatley, the Docta launches into his dog and pony show for his little boy, contorting his face to make the G giggle and then singing something I can't hear because the G's got the headsets on. I'm imagining its the "Philospher's Song" from Monty Python, a ditty the two of them have been singing together since birth.

You're in Australia, the G interrupts, you're not on a plane anymore?

You're with the wombats, the kangaroos.

That's right big guy and tomorrow Dada is going to hold a Koala bear.

G'day mate, throw another shrimp on the barby, the G says parroting the words I'm whispering in his ear (sorry cousin mel you know how we americans love our cliches).

I love you you little bugabuski, the Docta tells him reaching out to touch hands on the screen.

Come home now Dada

I'm on my way bug. I'm on my way.

When the screen goes black, I carry the G up to the dark of his bedroom.

Mama will you sleep with me?

I don't say a word, just pull us both deep inside the covers. Face to face he strokes my cheek humming us to sleep, both of us dizzy with visions of the Docta dancing in our heads.