Eight Days and Eight Nights

I heard that is takes one day per every hour of time difference to get over jet lag. Spain's eight hours ahead of Scottsdale, so I kept telling Shana to hang on. It'll get better. Take naps if you're tired. Don't take naps, stay awake as long as you can. Take drugs. Don't take drugs. Pretty soon, baby. Give it eight days. But she was miserable. I could just see/Skype it in her eyes, the exhaustion, the desperation, the glassiness (maybe it was doing the can can until 4am), the cranky, the weepy. I wanted to pick her up and rock her. Put her in a car seat and drive around town. Stick her up on a spinning dryer like all the old baby remedies. I felt so helpless. But last night, after day eight, she finally slept. Shawn and I got up to her smiling face on the computer. She was talking to her host mom and dad, going a mile a minute in Spanish, showing them the new necklace she got at H & M (aach-a y emm-e, in espanol) looked back to normal, planning some big adventures, rearranging her schedule, wide awake. Wide awake in a good way.