BrooklynGirl

By the I-95 Off Ramp, I Pulled Over and Wept

I remain completely overwhelmed.  It's not surprising or interesting, but it's true.

Ultimately, I think we're moving in the right direction for our family, but maybe leaving the way we did--so quickly--was a mistake.  We need to find our groove here and move on because right now every day is about what we're missing instead of what we've gained. 

This afternoon when everything was imploding, I steered the car to the beach and the (vaguely) salty air and the water redeemed us all.  I was glad we were there--that we're here.  Now, how to create the mood when we're not covered in sand.

We Are Here

I was only without Internet access for about 24 hours, but I was twitchy the whole time.

So yes, we have arrived.  There is still a crazy amount of unpacking to do, but all of that is pre-empted by The Boy's 3rd birthday, which happens tomorrow.  When I think back on his arrival, there are funny things that I recall: "Sweet Alabama"  was on TV in the hospital during my induction, Joss Stone on TV when things took a turn.

The Boy's birthday party will be lame: family gathered together over hot dogs or pizza or maybe both.  I will overcompensate for the fact that we are not celebrating his birthday in Brooklyn, with the kids he has learned to call his friends, by spending too much on his gifts.  This year is the first year he has understood about birthdays.  He has asked for chocolate cupcakes with vanilla frosting--no!  vanilla cupcakes with chocolate frosting--no! everything chocolate, chocolate, chocolate.

He has asked for a talking doll and a yellow ball and a firetruck and a copy of Mary Poppins to watch on TV.  I wish that any of these gifts could tell him how happy I am that he's here.  I wish that these gifts would make him forget the fact of the move.   I wish that any of this would somehow signify how much my life has changed, and how it could never be the same without him.

Stupid Parent Tricks

We're on our way to the playground (by way of a few errands) in the late afternoon.  The Boy has not napped (he's giving them up) and is tired  and cranky.  I peer over him in the Phil & Ted's to see if he's asleep and he reaches out and (lightly) slaps my cheek.  "Go away!"

I deliver a brief lecture on hitting that concludes, "We're not going to the playground until you apologize for hitting me."

We accomplish the rest of our errands pleasantly enough, but The Boy has still not apologized.

"Can we go to the playground now?" he asks.

"No, not until you apologize."

"Oh," he says, showing no sign of surrender.

"I guess we're not going to the playground," I say in my best imperious mom voice. He's quiet for a few minutes.

"Mama?" he says.

"Yes," I answer sweetly, already tasting the victory apology.

"What does 'apologize' mean?"

Reconoitering

The last two days I went out to the house to do some exploring.  I went once by myself to do the mundane stuff: you know, measure for curtains, find the nearest grocery store, figure out how to turn on the hot water heater.   

I went to the Town Hall to get my dump sticker (and beach sticker!) and presented my lease as proof of residence.  Both my and my husband's names are on the lease (we have different last names), but as the clerks were filling out the permits, both of them used my husband's name (and only his name).  It's not a huge deal--I like my husband's last name, and it is my children's last name (although the clerks had no way of knowing that) so in a certain sense it is the majority name in our household, but since the name issue was already on my radar screen, it raised my hackles.  Maybe I'm just watching too much Mad Men.

I've been so worried about saying the wrong thing about the move and traumatizing The Boy that I realized I have neglected to tell him anything about the move.  Ahem.  So, yesterday I took the kiddos out to our soon to be local playground.  They mostly fell in love with it: it was clean and quiet and not covered with these absurd black safety mats that blanket most of the playgrounds near us in Brooklyn.  But it was a little too quiet.  "When are my friends coming?" The Boy wanted to know.

Ah yes.  When indeed. 

Monday

It's amazing how quickly you can dismantle your life if you really set your mind to it: we move on Sunday.

I've moved a lot in my life,  and I'm pretty good at adapting--though I've never had to adapt in full view of two young children.  When I first moved to New York City, for example, I spent hours wandering around the city and memorizing subway maps--even for lines I'd never need to ride--just to orient myself.  I wonder how I'll do all that (well, minus the subways) while entertaining the children.

The issue I'm having the hardest time wrapping my mind around is this: our new town does not have municipal garbage pick up so we have to either hire our own carting company (which sounds expensive) or bring our trash to the dump ourselves.  What's next?  Pumping and carrying our water from a well?

Our current apartment is not yet on the market.  Conventional wisdom dictates that New York is a ghost town until after Labor Day and some of the improvements we need to make--painting, sprucing up our one and only bathroom--are best done when the apartment is vacant.   The realtors we've met with have had vastly different opinions about what the apartment is worth.  Seriously vast.  Grand Canyon vast. 

So yes, all is boring and yet completely overwhelming.  

Back to Life, Back to Reality

Ah, the beach.  It was lovely.  The Boy and The Girl got to run around with their cousins and splash in the waves.  No one slept much, but I don't think I've ever seen grins quite so wide.

Now it's time to do everything on the "worry about after vacation" list: sell the apartment*, find a mover, find a pre-school, move.  The lease on our rental starts Friday, believe it or not, so we could be out soon.  Really soon.

I was hyperventilating over the to do list with a friend whose only advice was, to paraphrase Nike, "Just do it."   No hours spent on the Internet researching realtors and movers and strategies for extricating your almost three year old son from the only home he has ever known with a minimum of trauma.

Gah.

And how are you?

*At one point we talked about subleting the apartment and perhaps we still will, but holding on to a too small apartment merely for the sake  of maintaining the illusion that we could easily return to the city seems a little disingenuous.

Fun in the Sun

For the next week, I'll be at the beach with my nearest and dearest.  I hope August is treating you well.