The In-Between: Mother and Artist
West Japan (More or Less) Travel Notes — Part III
The Luggage
Traveling with a small child, I have learned, is never really about the destination.
It is about what you carry — physically, mentally, and emotionally — long before the journey even begins.
This essay is not a guide to packing efficiently, nor a story of endurance told for effect.
It is a record of what accumulates inside a suitcase when anxiety, care, memory, and love quietly pile up alongside diapers and toys.
Part III of *West Japan (More or Less) Travel Notes* traces one mother’s movement through stations and trains, through time buffers and missed connections — while asking what it truly means to “carry” a child, and what we lose, piece by piece, along the way.
The In-Between: Mother and Artist
West Japan (More or Less) Travel Notes — Part III
Previous:
Part II — Why I Tour With My Two-Year-Old
https://medium.com/@ekotumi/west-japan-more-or-less-travel-notes-part-ii-why-i-tour-with-my-two-year-old-3c1203be094f
***
Let us set aside the preface and finally begin the journey.
Though, of course, a journey always starts long before you leave home.
And for anyone traveling with a small child, the very first trial is always the same:
The luggage.
For reference, here is the load I carried during last year’s Italy tour.
On top of all this, I kept a valuables bag in my hand at all times — never to be let go, not even for a second.
And this photo was taken after I had already delivered the gifts in London and consumed the baby food I packed for the outbound flight and first day.
Naturally, I carried all of this by myself. Strength is something motherhood grants — and demands.
Attach a baby carrier plus a ten-kilogram mini-human to this set-up, and you have the complete form.
But this time, it was a domestic tour.
Far easier than traveling abroad.
And it was a reading performance — no vocal performance, no costume, no audio equipment.
Still: diapers. Spare clothes.
And more spare clothes — because what if it suddenly turns cold?
Toys for long stretches of transit (three hours or more, several times on this trip).
And toys she could play with quietly during my talk.
Why is it that my own belongings take ten minutes to pack, yet packing for a child requires such monumental mental effort?
Why does it feel, no matter how much I stuff into the suitcase, that I am forgetting something essential?
Perhaps what is packed tightly into that suitcase is not clothing but the weight of anxiety itself.
This trip’s toy set.
From right to left: English picture books I chose so she could interact with the Lithuanian team, followed by two Nontan books for bedtime.
The Very Hungry Caterpillar puzzle behind them lost one piece after we returned home — my guard was down.
In front of the Nontan books is a Moomin water-paint set from Finland. Perfect for shinkansen rides. This time, I finally lost the pen cap I had managed to protect until now.
The ball of yarn (or something like yarn?) and the small packets of rice clay behind it are also ideal for long train journeys. By the end of this trip, the clay had been mixed into such indecipherable colors that it was nearly unusable.
In the center: a full set of stickers — the undisputed king of solo play.
Next to them, paper balloons. I thought, If we play with these together, wouldn’t that count as cultural exchange with the Lithuanian team?
This decision would later cause a major problem.
In front, sheets of chiyogami paper, also selected with “cultural exchange” in mind. In reality, there was no time for such exchange at all.
The Kewpie doll (an eraser) beside them made its debut on this tour. Because its parts come apart, it held her attention for a remarkably long time. On the return shinkansen, however, it lost an arm.
At the back left is a house-shaped bag containing finger puppets. These were a big hit, but before I knew it, the pig had disappeared.
So had the five wooden cats from Bali that were stored inside.
Below that are Mini-Tumi’s own selections: stones, nuts, acorns, and parts of a panda — among other things.
In our household, when we collect acorns, we boil them and draw faces on them so we won’t forget which are which.
Last year they had smiley faces. This year, they are dogs. Can you tell?
As luggage increases, it becomes heavy — of course.
And yet, it is true: there are countless moments when bringing more turns out to be the small mercy I needed.
Each time I whisper “I’m so proud I brought this,” I get to reward myself — quietly, but sincerely.
In the end, I opened the suitcase’s expansion zipper and forced in everything I could.
On top of it I placed a giant Boston bag, and on the other side I hooked a travel shoulder bag that was already full to bursting.
I wore a small sacoche for my Suica card with the Shinkansen tickets loaded onto it.
And finally, I strapped on the baby carrier.
A baby carrier used to symbolize peace for me — something for strolling gently with a baby in the sunlight.
Now, it has become more like battle gear.
A tool of survival.
The moment I fasten it, my mind snaps into focus.
Mini-Tumi prepared two bags of her own.
We promised she would carry them herself (promises, of course, are made to be broken).
She also carried two stuffed animals: “Kaeru” the frog and “Mā-kun” the mouse.
We had booked a shinkansen that would depart just after her usual nap time.
At the station, I pushed the suitcase while Mini-Tumi orbited me — moving around front and back, the way small children do.
I held her hand only in crowds or near danger.
Occasionally she helped push the suitcase.
Before giving birth, arriving at the station ten minutes before departure was more than enough.
Ten minutes to buy a drink, stop by the restroom, walk to the right platform, and board with confidence.
Now, arriving only ten minutes beforehand would terrify me.
If I am still en route and the buffer drops below thirty minutes, my hands go cold with tension.
This time I arrived forty minutes early — enough to make me want to skip with joy. My bar for happiness is low.
At the convenience store I bought “emergency bread” for Mini-Tumi, and as a small treat for myself, a slice of Baumkuchen.
(It would prove very useful later.)
**
As planned, she slept on the shinkansen.
I carried her, still asleep, as we transferred at Nagoya Station.
(For the record: “as planned” happens about once every three tries. Even when she’s clearly sleepy, she sometimes simply refuses to sleep.)
From Nagoya, we transferred to the Hida Line — my first time taking it.
Anything other than a shinkansen still makes me nervous.
Google Maps, Yahoo Transit — no matter how many times I check, traveling with a child never feels certain.
Tickets?
Will there be an elevator at the transfer?
What if the platform is on the opposite side?
Where can I change her diaper?
Am I going to miss this connection?
When I feel anxious now, I ask for directions right away.
It is a skill I learned only after becoming a mother — and learned quite recently.
With a baby and a suitcase, getting lost is disastrous.
Before becoming a parent, I often pretended to “know where I was going” and wandered until things resolved themselves.
Why did I pretend? I’m not sure. But I did.
No matter what country I was in, I tended to walk as though I lived there.
(And people often asked me for directions. I could never answer.)
Maybe I learned on overseas tours that blending in reduces the risk of pickpocketing.
Or that I am more likely to stumble into a good restaurant that way.
Whatever the reason, I once had the mental bandwidth for that kind of meandering freedom.
Getting lost did not bother me; in fact, I savored those small pockets of unstructured time.
Now, things are different.
And precisely because they are different, I finally learned how to say, “I don’t know.”
So, I asked at the Hida Line counter.
A young man — thin, and unmistakably the type who would own a Shiba Inu, not a golden retriever or a saluki — helped me warmly.
“The next train leaves in eight minutes. The gate is over there, a little far.”
Eight minutes.
Absolutely impossible for me, Mini-Tumi, and all this luggage.
“Um… and the train after that?” I asked, hesitant but desperate.
He checked.
“Ah… two hours later.”
He definitely seemed like the kind of person who would let Mini-Tumi pet his dog if we met in a park — and also the kind who would nod politely if we ran into him again.
He and I exchanged looks of despair.
I asked, almost pleading,
“Excuse me… where exactly do I buy the tickets?”
He stood up quickly — yes, definitely someone who walks his dog daily.
“It’s right there — one section over, to the left. The gate is just before it. If you can’t make it, just tap in with Suica and settle the fare on the train!”
Buoyed forward by his voice, I bowed in thanks — already moving toward the ticket gate.
I ran.
Elevator would be safer, but I chose the escalator.
(With a baby carrier, I can’t see my feet — terrifying.)
I ran again.
Reached the platform.
To my surprise, I made it in time.
It felt like I had warped through space.
I settled Mini-Tumi into her seat.
The carriage was filled with a group of elderly women exchanging snacks and chatting cheerfully.
Someday, perhaps, I will tour alone again — without Mini-Tumi.
Am I envious of that future, or lonely at the thought of it?
I don’t know yet.
Thinking these thoughts, I inevitably grow sentimental.
A feeling rises up: I have to cherish this version of Mini-Tumi with everything I have. This moment will never come again.
While that feeling lasts, it seems like I can do anything.
In truth, I can do anything. Even the unreasonable.
But this is not because my strength has increased.
It is because sentimentality allows me to forcibly draw power from the same limited reserve I had before — nothing more.
All that changes is the speed at which that reserve is depleted.
If one continues to act under the illusion that their energy has increased, without realizing what is happening, you can probably guess the outcome.
Someday, the borrowed portion must be repaid.
Oblivious to this, I would later come to regret it deeply.
At this moment, however, there was only one thing I truly understood:
Mini-Tumi’s remarkable ability to connect with others.
She voluntarily went around high-fiving the grandmothers — and returned with two mandarins in her hands.
—
This essay is part of the series
“The In-Between: Mother and Artist.”
Previous:
Part II — Why I Tour With My Two-Year-Old
https://medium.com/@ekotumi/west-japan-more-or-less-travel-notes-part-ii-why-i-tour-with-my-two-year-old-3c1203be094f
Next:
Part IV — The Brink Mothers Stand On
https://medium.com/@ekotumi/the-in-between-mother-and-artist-the-brink-mothers-stand-on-f6896bb1e838
