The In-Between: Mother and Artist
West Japan (More or Less) Travel Notes — Part Ⅵ
Running for the Shinkansen with a Two-Year-Old
Two train stations. Two sprints. One two-year-old in my arms.
During an international tour across western Japan, I found myself running for connections, carried forward by the kindness of others. This is a story about exhaustion, borrowed strength, and the fragile possibility of being both mother and artist.
The In-Between: Mother and Artist
West Japan (More or Less) Travel Notes — Part Ⅵ
Previous:
Part V — How Long Can a Two-Year-Old Sit Still?
https://ekotumi.medium.com/the-in-between-mother-and-artist-how-long-can-a-two-year-old-sit-still-c8f16a52b45c
**
5:00 PM, Tsuruga Museum.
The presentation had just finished, and we rushed into a taxi heading for the station.
As I mentioned earlier, most of my luggage — the heavy bag filled with my laptop, manuscripts, and diapers, as well as my rather large suitcase — was being carried by the Lithuanian team.
Each of them was carrying my things in addition to their own.
My role was simple.
Run, while carrying 12.5 kilograms of Mini-Tumi.
Once we reached the station, we all dashed furiously onto the Thunderbird bound for Shin-Osaka.
At Shin-Osaka we dashed again, transferring to the Shinkansen heading to Fukuyama.
Just before boarding, we had exactly three minutes to spare — though calling it “spare time” might be generous.
At a convenience store beside the stairs leading up to the platform, I bought a sandwich for Mini-Tumi.
It had been that kind of day.
Food like this, all day long.
And she was a two-year-old in the middle of her growing years.
In situations like this, elevators are not an option. The train leaves in two or three minutes. If the elevator happens to be slow, missing the train is guaranteed.
The poet lifted both her suitcase and mine and bounded up the stairs with her long legs, as if they weighed nothing.
Agne carried her own luggage while also slinging my heavy Boston bag over her shoulder.
It looked light enough — after all, it only contained diapers and toys.
But I knew better. Those bags were heavy.
Holding Mini-Tumi, I tightened my grip.
I had to do my part.
So I ran up the stairs in heeled boots, carrying 12.5 kilograms in my arms. I should have packed flat shoes in my handbag. Why had I put them in the suitcase?
The last reserves of my energy vanished completely.
By the time I reached the platform I was half-collapsed, my face somewhere between tears and exhaustion.
“Thank you so much,” I said to Agne.
“But that bag must be heavy.”
“Oh no, it’s fine,” she replied with a smile that looked almost divine.
“I’m strong.”
She has two grown children.
Someday, I wondered, might I become strong like that?
But that was a question for someday, not for now.
Once we boarded the Shinkansen, I could barely entertain the child on my lap. I handed Mini-Tumi the final toy I had been saving for emergencies — a set of Kewpie-doll erasers with detachable parts — and sank into a daze.
Within seconds the dolls’ arms and legs had been removed and swapped around.
By the time the tour ended, I was certain some of those tiny pieces would be lost.
Agne, however, did not overlook Mini-Tumi.
She tore a page from her notebook and folded it into a small paper cat.
I had been noticing that notebook throughout the trip.
At every stop she carefully recorded the journey in it.
I imagined it must be something like my own lyric notebook —
a companion for the road, something precious.
And she had torn a page from it to make a cat.
I wondered whether I could do the same.
Could I casually tear the cover from my own lyric notebook — the one I treat almost like an archive edition — for the child of someone I had only just met?
Perhaps Mini-Tumi sensed the depth of that kindness.
She loved the paper cat instantly.
“Another one,” she demanded.
Come on now, I tried to tell her. She already made you one. She cut it from her notebook.
But Mini-Tumi insisted.
And so Agne made a second cat.
Ah, I thought.
This is a treasure.
A treasure for Mini-Tumi, and a treasure for me.
A small crystallization of the belief that being an artist and being a mother can coexist — that they will continue to coexist.
(After we got home, this happened immediately.
“I wanted to dress them as stars,” she explained.
Oh no…)
We arrived at Fukuyama Station at an hour when she would normally already be asleep.
After thanking everyone profusely for carrying my luggage, I went into my room. Mini-Tumi cheerfully asked, “Is this today’s house?”
There was still the bath, picture books, and bedtime ahead of us.
In exchange, however, another familiar ritual from my pre-motherhood tours disappeared:
the “We’re in a new town — maybe I’ll have a drink” moment.
Healthier, I thought.
As I began filling the bath, another realization occurred to me.
Today, I had hardly carried my own luggage at all.
Thinking back on previous overseas tours, I stopped for a moment.
Wait a minute.
In the end, I wasn’t nearly as exhausted as usual.
Once again, silently, I shouted my thanks to everyone.
This essay is part of the series
“The In-Between: Mother and Artist.”
Previous:
Part V — How Long Can a Two-Year-Old Sit Still?
https://ekotumi.medium.com/the-in-between-mother-and-artist-how-long-can-a-two-year-old-sit-still-c8f16a52b45c
