September 1st, 2010

Goodbye House – Hello Apartment

Tomorrow we move into the third home we’ve occupied in the short 4.5 years of our marriage.  This is also the third time we’ve moved while I’m newly pregnant.  That just happens to an unbelievable coincidence, because each and every time we’ve moved, I didn’t know I was pregnant when we made the plans to move, only finding out after the new mortgage/lease was signed.

– In November 2005, we started the processes of buying a condo early in the month.  The same week we got approved for the loan, we found out we were expecting Jonas.

– In September 2007, we moved out of that condo and into the current house, and found out just 11 days after we moved in that we were expecting Julesy.

– And in July of 2010, we signed a lease to move out of this home and into a new apartment, only to discover just 10 days later that we’re expecting yet another baby.

If you ever find out that I’m moving again, I think it’s safe to assume that I must be pregnant, even if I don’t know it yet.

But leaving this house is especially sad.  When we moved in here three years ago, we thought this would be the place that our children would bring their children.  We never expected to leave.  Even though we were renting this house, the landlord intended to sell it to us when we were ready.  We knew it was going to be a few years before we recovered from the disaster of the condo we had just sold, but we thought that when the time was right, we’d take ownership and that would be that.

Bye Bye House - We'll miss you.

However, as time went on here, and we added Julesy to the family, we began to realize this place wasn’t quite right for us.  First of all, the layout is ridiculous.  Yes, it has three bedrooms, but not really.  When the first owners added an addition on to this simple walk-up ranch, they didn’t add UP, the way everyone else in the neighborhood seemed to do. Instead, they added OUT, meaning they put an extra bedroom and bathroom (our master suite) on to the back of the house, using another bedroom as the “doorway” to the new part of the house.

So what does that mean?  I means that you have to walk through one of the bedrooms to get to the other, which essentially makes that middle bedroom nothing more than a hallway.  For a very long time, we used it as my office.  But this summer we caved and turned it into Julesy’s room because we found that the boys couldn’t handle sleeping in the same room.

The other thing I hated was that, even though we had a back yard, there was no good way to get to it.  Because the first owners added this brick addition on to the back of the house, you could no longer really see the backyard from any part of the house.  We had a TINY window in our bedroom that was 5 feet off the ground, but that’s all.  The only way to get to the backyard was to go all the way to the front of the house, then to the side, and down the sidewalk.  I could never leave the kids outside playing while I went in to use the bathroom or something – I may as well have just left them alone at the park down the street for as much as I could see them from the house.  Going to the back yard was like going somewhere else.  I had to pack like I was going on a trip because there was really no running in and out once we were out there.

Oh, and the kitchen.  Ugh.  The tiny, TINY kitchen.  When friends came over they’d oooh and aaah over our kitchen because the landlord had installed beautiful cabinets, granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances.  However, all that was packed into a 5’ x 5’ space.  I’m not joking when I say that my husband could stand in the middle of our kitchen and touch all four walls at once.  It was a shoebox.  A miserable place to try to cook or store food.  I hated it every minute of every day.

But despite all this, we still had no intention of moving out of here.  We figured we’d stay here either until we could afford to buy it and immediately remodel the place, or until we could afford to buy the perfect house just down the street.  We adore this neighborhood.  It’s our home.  It’s where my bestest friends are now.  It’s where we feel the absolute perfect mix of city culture and suburban air.

But all of that changed the day of the flood.

When we woke up to find everything in our finished basement was destroyed, we immediately decided this was our chance to get out and move on.  We lost all of our furniture, toys, electronics on that floor, and we knew by the damage that had been done to the walls and carpet that the place would never look the same again – or if it ever did – it was going to take a long time.

So, we rented a 3 bedroom, 2 bath apartment just five minutes from my new business.  We’re happy about moving into a real 3 bedroom, and about not having to do yard work anymore, but we’re very sad leaving a place that we made a home.

Moving into this apartment means that there’s no hope of this being our last address.  We will have to move again – hopefully to a home that we own, but this means that none of my children will ever be born in the place they will grow up.  We definitely won’t be able to buy anything until after I’m done with law school and have worked for a few years, so we’re looking at anywhere from 6-8 years before we can own a permanent home. 

You’d have to know my back story to understand why this is so upsetting to me, but suffice to say that after growing up like a homeless nomad, I never wanted that for my kids.  I never wanted them to move even once - let alone this many times in their short life.  I wanted my kids to have a life like my husband had – being born and raised at the same address, with the same friends, until he started out on his own.

This all has me extra sad and nostalgic, but it’s happening, and I can’t stop it.

I just keep trying to remind myself, “There’s a pool at the new place.”

August 31st, 2010

Have Pregnancy, Will Complain.

A couple of years ago, right around the time Julesy was born, my boss was trying desperately to get pregnant, without much luck.  When she first became my boss, I was nearing my 8th month of pregnancy, and wanted to cry every minute at my desk.  I was still working too much, and was as miserable as any sleep deprived, pregnant, working mother of a toddler can possibly be.  Throughout the end of my pregnancy and my first few months back in the office, my new boss would proclaim, “When I get pregnant, I’m NEVER going to complain like you people! I will enjoy every minute of it!” I told her that I’d be heartily laughing as she moaned about morning sickness and swollen ankles when she finally did get herself a bun in the oven.

And about 8 months after my son was born, my boss finally did get pregnant. It took $20,000 of IVF treatment but sure enough, she got her two pink lines.  And what was the VERY first thing she did when the 7th week started?  Oh, you guessed it!  She COMPLAINED!  She complained about having to pee all the time. She complained about feeling sick. She complained about cravings.  She complained about her partner not being around enough and not taking the pregnancy seriously.  She complained about her condo being too small for a baby, and the McMansions she was looking to buy being too expensive.  In fact, I’m not sure if a day went by that she didn’t complain about some aspect of her $20,000, hard earned baby.

Did I judge her? Absolutely NOT!  Oh yeah, I chuckled at the irony, but as far as I’m concerned, no matter how badly someone wants a child, there is no preparing yourself (even the second, third, or fifth time) for how hard growing and raising a human being actually is, both physically and emotionally.  And each time we do it, we’re at an even greater disadvantage than the previous time because we now have other children that also need mothering while we’re deep in the throes of morning sickness misery and sleep deprivation.

When we were trying to get pregnant, I remembered morning sickness and how unpleasant it was. But, I had this delusion that I’d be able to manage it better this time because, after all, I was a veteran, right?  I know all the tricks of the trade; all of the secret remedies for curing nausea.  So then why have I suffered so badly over the last few weeks?  Well, maybe because not all those tricks have worked for me, and I’m too tired/lazy to run around town seeking out special herbs and spices to mix up some remedy that also may not work.

One particular tea seemed to help, but I ran out, and I can barely lift my head up to feed my children these days, let alone drag those mini nutbags into Whole Foods while they rip items off the shelf and cause me a mental breakdown in the herbal section. “Clean Up in Aisle 3” takes on a whole new meaning with my children in your store.

And so I’m just about 8 weeks pregnant, and essentially miserable.  I’ve never been a big fan of this whole pregnancy thing to begin with – I just like the prize at the end.  This week sucks especially hard because we’re moving our whole life a half hour away, and I have school, AND I have a mom due any minute, AND I have to run my business. Meanwhile all I can stand doing is laying in bed on my side in total silence.

I know there are people who are angry that I’d complain about having healthy children and a seemingly healthy pregnancy, but complaining is every mother’s right, and when it’s your turn, I’ll listen to you with no judgment whatsoever.  I’ve been there sister.   I’ll hold your hand, and your hair, while you just let it all out.   It doesn’t make you a bad mom, or ungrateful… it just makes you human.

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Oh please, I’m begging you PLEASE do NOT leave me six hundred (or even one) suggestion for a morning sickness remedy.  I’ve got lists coming out of my ass, and no time to try them all.  You can commiserate, but please don’t try to fix me – I don’t have the energy anymore. I’m simply in misery-loves-company mode now. Commiserate, or leave me a funny story – please.

August 27th, 2010

Darkness Falls Across the Land

Every morning, both of my children are in bed with me before I wake up.  I can’t remember exactly when this started, but some time over the last few months, Jonas developed a habit of creeping into bed with us somewhere around 4 am.  Julesy comes in at about 7 am when he wakes up for the day.  We have a pretty solid routine of snuggling together and watching morning cartoons before I drag us all out of bed for breakfast.  It’s actually quite cute.  Julesy sits up in bed and says “Mommy, I wanna watch a liddle bit of TV.” And so we do.  This morning, Jonas woke up and immediately started freaking out about wanting to watch one certain cartoon.  He got lippy, the way he generally does these days, and I closed my eyes to breathe and think for a minute instead of getting frustrated with him.

Just prior to that, Julesy had been headbutting me in the leg – which is his “thing” – the headbutting.  I told him to stop because it was really hurting, then I closed my eyes to gather myself.  With my eyes closed, I started to think about a documentary we watched the other night which linked ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) with head injuries.  I was in the middle of wondering if I’d get Lou Gehrig’s disease if Julesy decided me to headbutt me in the head, when the little fucker did exactly that.

For some reason, out of nowhere, Julesy threw his head backwards with the force of a freight train, smashing me straight down the middle of my face.  He managed to hit everything from my forehead to my teeth, which felt like an absolute explosion of pain.

I sat up, stunned, but not numb.  Every inch of my face was on fire.  Violent anger washed over me and, god help me, I wanted that boy to be in as much pain as I was.  Undoubtedly, he certainly was in as much pain because, after all, it was his head that hit my head.  As he sobbed, I told myself I should comfort him because, duh, my child was hurt.  But, the blinding pain of the knot forming between my eyes turned to blinding rage, and all I could feel toward him was hatred.  Pure, unadulterated hatred.

And then, I hated myself for being a horrible mother who couldn’t look past her own pain to comfort her small child.  As it was turning out, I realized I’m no different than my bio mom.  She was fucked up, and now, so am I.  I suppose the only difference between she and I is that I haven’t run away.  Yet.

Then, like I’ve felt so many times before, my breath caught in my throat like a noose around my neck, and I started crying.  No, crying isn’t the word.  Sobbing might be right, but even that doesn’t explain it.  I soaked the bed with the kind of tears reserved for the deepest grief.  The kind of grief that leaves you begging the world to just make it stop for one minute so you can fill your lungs with air again.

But it didn’t stop, so I called my husband.  He answered the phone and I wailed.  Pretty quickly, I realized that the kind of wailing I was doing might have him thinking that one of our children was hurt, so I just told him “I can’t do this anymore.” And then I cried harder.  He asked me what was wrong and I blubbered that Julesy had bashed me in the face and Jonas woke up yelling at me about the stupid remote and his stupid cartoons and I just couldn’t stand it, and I couldn’t do this anymore, and it wasn’t what I agreed to, and he’s never home, and please don’t make me do this anymore.  Do what? I dunno.  Suffer like this, I suppose.  I was in an incredible amount of pain both from my face, and in my stomach where another knot was forming.

Then he asked to talk to Jonas, and Jonas blamed Julesy for making me cry, but Daddy made him say he was sorry about yelling at me over the remote.  Then he wanted to talk to Julesy, who was, by then, completely over the incident and had begun pulling forbidden things off my desk (like the stapler) and laughing hysterically in his mischief.  Typical.

I finally let my husband off the phone when I knew there was nothing else he could do.  I didn’t feed the kids breakfast.  I turned on the TV, pulled a pillow over my face, and went back to sleep.  When their fighting became unbearable, I promised them we’d go to the kitchen.  Just then, I heard the front door slam, and the kids ran to see who was there.  I just figured it was the landlord coming in and out because he had been there all morning working on the basement, but once the kids yelled “Grandma!” I started crying hysterically again.

He had called his mother. He called her to come over and save me from my children, and save them from me.  I didn’t want her seeing me like this, but I suppose somebody had to feed my kids.   She sat on the bed while I soaked my pillow with ugly tears and squeaked out answers to her questions.  Then she told me to sleep.

I couldn’t sleep though.  I had to do homework.  I got up, showered, and drove to school.  I cried a little more anytime I thought nobody was looking.  My head pounded.  An hour before class started, I fell asleep in my chair for about 15 minutes.  My face was swollen.  I was a mess.  Depression had a chokehold on me and I could hardly do anything but wallow in it.  My whole body hurt.  My whole life hurt.

I managed to drag myself into my classroom, and settle in to a seat, assuming I’d continue to feel like a pile of shit for the rest of the night.  I’m happy to say that the class lifted my mood, as school usually does.  Yes, I’m an authentic nerd, but this class was especially interesting to me because it was a Sociology class on Sex & Gender.  Right up my alley.  And the teacher was great.  The kind of person who makes it impossible to be suicidally depressed in his presence.

I could blame today’s breakdown on pregnancy hormones, but the truth is I’ve been on the verge of full-on crying jag for quite some time.  I’ve never really recovered from the PPD or PTSD I began suffering from four years ago, and every day is an exercise in trying to feel better.

Tomorrow, I suppose I’ll try a little harder.  Today was an absolute bust.

August 26th, 2010

Wordless Wednesday – I ♥ NY

First Pic in NYC - Chrysler Building

Me Striking a Pose in Times Square

Radio City Baby!

MTV Studios - but the important part is the headline in blue.

Rowing in Central Park

Strawberry Fields Forever

Me on a Real NYC Fire Escape in SoHo

Welcome to Little Italy

The drug store where I bought my positive pregnancy test, at the corner of Broadway & Houston.

World Wide Pants.

Bye Bye NYC. You have my heart, but I must go now.

August 24th, 2010

Floods & Fertility – What’s the Connection?

Remember last month when I woke up the first flood my family has ever experienced?  If not, here’s a little reminder.

Well, weekend of our disastrous flood also happened to be the weekend that I ovulated.  Actually, I wasn’t charting my temps because life was crazy and I kept forgetting, but I WAS tracking my cervical mucous.  On Friday, the night before the flood, I told the Hyphenated Husband that I thought ovulation was wrapping up, so he “Threw a Hail Mary,” so he called it, and then we fell asleep probably as the basement was filling up with that same water we woke up to.

A couple days later, the Monday after the flood, I had another day of INSANE cervical mucous – people who keep track of this sort of thing will understand when I say it was the size of a golf ball.  So I thought maybe I had been wrong about Friday – or maybe it stopped and started because of the stress of the weekend – and we gave it one last shot on that Monday.  Pun intended.  Gimme a break, that was an easy one.

The next day, Tuesday, we moved in with my mother-in-law while the landlord took his sweet time getting our house back into livable order.  Since we were sleeping under the mother-in-law’s roof, you KNOW there was zero hanky-panky going on in there.  That Monday was the last time we touched each other until we got to New York 10 days later for Blog Her.

We showed up at the hotel that BlogHer was at, parked our stuff in our room, and headed out for a bite to eat.  As I was walking out of the elevator, tweeting to my BlogHer friends on my phone, all the sudden I hear “splat” and feel wetness under my feet.

I look down, and see the first floor of our hotel flooding.

Of course I started yelling all over Facebook about the obscene irony of me being caught in yet another flood inside of less than two weeks.  But some people’s responses caught me off guard.  There were people on my Facebook page suggesting that I run to the drug store and pick up a pregnancy test because water is an undeniable symbol of fertility.  They suggest that all this ridiculous flooding I kept getting caught in must be the universe’s way of telling me that my body was in a state of creation.

HAAAA haa haa ha.  Oh, you people are hilarious.  Haa Haa Haa.

24 Hours later………………

So I suppose you people were on to something with this whole water/fertility business.  I went and googled it and found a few poorly executed websites listing a few myths and legends – but nothing that intriguing.  I want to know more though.  What’s the basis of this water/fertility connection? Are we talking about Greek mythology, or Far East legend?

I specifically want to know more about the back story because I’d like to find some girl names that are based in this water theory.  I suppose any water names at all would do.  At first I thought Brooke, but Brooke Hogan ruined that name for me.  What else is there?

Are you familiar with any water/fertility spirituality?  Got any decent websites you can link me to?  I’m not necessarily a superstitious or spiritual person, but being in a flood both during the week I ovulate, and the week I get a positive pregnancy test, is just too coincidental not to investigate – even if only for entertainment purposes.