BrooklynGirl

New Highs (or Lows?) in Parental Exhaustion

This morning I fell asleep while I was getting my hair cut--sitting bolt upright in a loud and crowded salon where Kate Perry's "I Kissed a Girl"* seemed to be on a constant replay and my hair guy was giving me his review of "Dark Night," which I was actually interested in hearing.

It was only a few seconds (I think), but jeez.

*Does anyone else think that Jill Sobule's "I Kissed a Girl" is a much better song or am I just showing my age?

The Upside

As it turns out, the prophylaxis for Lyme disease exposure in children is amoxicillin, and as it happens The Girl is already on that for the ear infection she was diagnosed with last week.  Hooray for ear infections!*

*****

I think we found a rental house.  It is small, but has a third bedroom, a sun porch, and a small yard.  My husband will be a 10 minute drive from his new job.  We can walk to a playground, a few stores, and a nursery school that probably won't have room for The Boy (who isn't potty trained anyway, as the school requires), but we'll see.  The town has a reputation for snootiness, and it's unlikely that we could afford to buy there, but for whatever reason, the rentals were more affordable and in better condition than the less snooty towns where we're more likely to end up.

Yesterday, we went out to "celebrate" this life change at a neighborhood bistro (while the kids were with the sitter).  We watched a father have a reasonably calm and delightful lunch with his two children--the sort of thing we never manage to do--and felt a pang about all that we'll be giving up.

"If you can make it [here], you can make it anywhere," is the way the song goes, and the decision to leave is the admission that we're not making it.  It feels like quitting.  It feels like surrender.  It feels awful.

Some of you have suggested that being happy in our suburban life is a state of mind, and I agree that it is.  Besides, it's not easy (or desirable) to boo-hoo in front of The Boy and The Girl who will struggle with this move in more elemental ways.  I know I will find good things in the  'burbs, but right now all I can think of is what we're leaving behind.

*Generally speaking, it is rare to contract Lyme disease from a tick--especially a tick that was discovered within 24 hours--but this particular tick was picked up in Connecticut, where Lyme disease is a real issue, and on the property of my in-laws, who have struggled with Lyme disease on and off for years.

Either/Or

"I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations--one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it--you will regret both." --Soren Kierkegaard, Either/Or

Either: You can live in the city where the deli on your corner is robbed at gunpoint one quiet summer evening.

Or: You can live in the suburbs where your daughter will wind up with a (probably Lyme disease-ridden) deer tick borrowing into her soft belly after rolling around on a wooded lawn.

These are  my choices?

Suburban Mystery

Yes, I grew up in the suburbs, but I never planned to go back so I wasn't really paying attention.  Now that we're thinking about moving there--thinking about it long enough to spend a significant chunk of our days on realtor dot com--it all seems like such a mystery.  A dark mystery.

The suburbs I think of now are those described by Rick Moody or Richard Yates and they are dark places.  Twisted places.  They are not places you want to bring your kids to visit much less live.

Except. Well, except for the yards and the amply sized houses and the good schools.  You know, those insignificant things.  So, even though this move feels like the right thing for us at this time on so many levels, it also feels wrong.

I find myself thinking about things that I don't generally worry about, like whether I have time to get my hair cut before we start meeting with realtors or what I'll wear or how we'll disguise the giant gash in the side of our car.  Where is that coming from?

This week I began calling realtors about rental properties.  Today, a woman asked me about my religious background (not totally out of left field--this was in connection with church-run pre-schools) and when I said I didn't have one, she was eerily silent.  That wouldn't happen here in the big city.  Later in the conversation I revealed that I hadn't changed my name after I got married.  She found this novel.  It made me feel like I'd stepped into a time machine. 

What are we getting ourselves into?

On Second Thought

I keep thinking of part of a speech that Izzie Stevens (that 21st century Hippocrates) gave when she said that surgeons who prefer staples to stitches are just lazy.  I think about it as I poke gingerly at the staples in my stomach.

I am recovering and I am mostly happy with the care I received although there are moments that give me pause.  There was, for instance, the first anesthesiologist who came to see me who was missing most of her front teeth and whose English was so poor that she could not understand the term "thrombophilia" much less "Factor V Leiden".  There was the surgeon who, upon being informed that my "job" was staying home with two active toddlers, told me I would have an easy recovery, despite the fact that I'm not supposed to lift anything heavier than 10 lbs for a month.* 

There was the coordinating surgeon (no idea what her actual title is) who met my gurney at the door to the OR and double checked with me and my doctors to ensure that we were all expecting the same procedure and greeted every response to her questions with,  "Let's go to the party," as if this was her own trademarked catch phrase.  I'm going to go out on a limb and say that no patient really wants to hear her surgery described as a party no matter how good the drugs are--especially if that surgery's occurring in early July, and it seems like everyone in the room has been practicing medicine for a half an hour or so.

*When I pointed out that much of my day involved lifting children in and out of car seats, strollers, high chairs, bath tubs and cribs, he asked in all seriousness, "Well, how much could they weigh?"

There's a Hole in My Belly Button, Redux

A laparoscopy is what drove me to start this blog four and one-half years ago, and here I am again with another hole in my belly button--and 3 secondary incisions this time.  Believe it or not I just had my gall bladder out. 

I was just fine on Tuesday when I was writing this--yes, I was freaking out a little about all the changes coming around the bend so maybe I dismissed the initial stomach discomfort as nerves.  But as the evening went on, there was no denying that I was experiencing some significant abdominal pain.  I Googled my symptoms before things went downhill and saw gall bladder disease, but I dismissed it as I was pretty sure that gall bladders were a problem for old ladies, not spry 38 year olds.

After writhing around on the living room rug and the bathroom floor for a while, though, I took myself to the ER and was only too happy to be diagnosed with gall stones--as long as that diagnosis came with sweet, sweet morphine.  An ultrasound revealed an inflamed gall bladder and several large stones, and before I knew what was happening, I was signing a consent form and being wheeled into surgery.

Only now that I'm home reading a little about the causes of gall stones--the typical patient is an overweight, middle aged (!!) woman with high cholesterol--am I a little embarrassed that I contracted this disease instead of, say, Tall Skinny Woman Syndrome, but I suppose you play the hand that you're dealt.

More anon.

Name this Blog

Well, some details are still being worked out, but for all intents and purposes, we are bound for the burbs.  I don't know where to start to prepare for this enormous life change, but if you happen to know of an affordable 3 bedroom/2  bath house for rent in Westchester or Fairfield Counties by all means let me know.  Ideally we'd be able to walk to the train and/or a park, playground, or library.

Gulp.

Options

Like many city dwellers, we started contemplating a move to the suburbs as soon as we had a child.  Mostly it was a space thing: our 800 square foot apartment could barely contain us, The Boy, and The Boy's stuff.  Once we added The Girl, things got...insane.  Especially in the winter when we were all stuck inside together.

Still, we always had reasons to reconsider: we love the city. We love where we live.  We love our friends, the park, the playground, the bar across the street where The Boy (and now The Girl) can have grilled cheese and french fries while my husband and I enjoy an adult beverage.  Or two.  I love that my husband's commute to work is short enough that he's generally home to help with bedtime.  I love that we rarely have to drive anywhere.  I love that there are myriad restaurants ready to deliver food to us when I am too tired to cook dinner.

But speaking of being tired: as our sleeping woes continue (too ugly to go into in depth), we have had one child or another "sleeping" in our room for the better part of a year. Maybe there are some kids that can share a room uneventfully, but our children are not among them--at least not at this age.  We need a third bedroom, and we need it now. 

We can't afford a third bedroom in our neighborhood (or any neighborhood closeby), but in the suburbs, Realtor.com seems to think we can.  There are other things we might be able to have in the 'burbs: a yard, a finished basement/play room, a decent sized kitchen, and even proximity to my in-laws.  And, as we get closer to enrolling The Boy in school, the shortcomings of the city's public school system are all too clear. 

In the midst of all this comes this deus ex machina: my husband has been offered a job in the suburbs.  Commuting is not an option.  Gulp.

Alice Bradley has written brilliantly on this subject, and I fear experience the suburban regret with which she seems to be struggling.  So this least scary option appears to be this: sublet our apartment in the city and rent in the 'burbs for a year to try this new lifestyle on. 

Thoughts?

Repercussions

When you write something like this, you worry about repercussions: what happens if, at some point in the future, your kid stumbles upon what you wrote and is driven into therapy by this evidence that there were times that you preferred to have a distance from him? 

Or, in this house, what happens a few hours later when you pick your son up at camp, and it's clear that he's enjoyed his distance as well--so much so that he throws the loudest and most impressive tantrum of his life. "I want you to stay home," he'll scream before kicking you and pushing you away.  "Go away!  I want to stay here."

Your heart will break into a million pieces in full view of his teacher and the other parents there for pick-up.  He will say other hurtful things that you've blocked out of your memory because you were too busy trying to remember how to breathe when he said them.  You will spend 45 minutes trying to coax him out of camp, and the 4 hours until his bedtime trying not to cry.

You will be too beaten down to be surprised when your daughter has a 13 month old version of the same tantrum when you pick her up from the sitter. You will feel like the worst mother in the history of mothers.  You will cite as evidence the fact that you've been counting down the days until your son started camp. 

You will be torn between wanting to make what's left of the afternoon with your son amazingly fabulous and filled with ice cream, hot dogs, water balloons, and unlimited viewings of The Wonder Pets on the one hand and a four hour marathon of room straightening and tooth brushing (his least favorite activities) on the other. 

You will mull over not sending him back to camp. 

You will start counting down the time until he goes back to camp again.

     

Ah, Camp

The Boy started camp today: 3 days a week, 6 hours a day, for the next 4 weeks.  We kept trying to explain the idea of camp--he would see some of his friends from school (but not be at school) and get to play and have a snack and some lunch and maybe take a rest if he wanted.  Still, he was a little subdued as we walked over--and then he saw kids running through sprinklers and climbing on monkey bars, and he couldn't get out of the stroller fast enough.

"Bye Mama!" he called from across the playground (not even wanting to stop over for a good-bye hug).

In the past such interactions have made me sad (isn't he going to miss me a little?), but today I confess I was relieved.   The Girl and I hustled home, and I packed her off with the sitter and for the first time since early June, I reclaimed my 10 hours of babysitter-covered work time in the apartment.  It's pretty freaking great. I've never been so excited about hunting down split infinitives.