Not actually a 'vintage' photo from the internets. 
Happy Mother's Day all!

Well hello. What happened here now. Oh working mom what? I really need to get better at carving out some time for this sort of stuff. But then again, I don't feel too bad. Having a creative outlet IS important. But biologically all of my interests (I really have no choice, it's BIOLOGY, man) have been funneling down into one little blonde moppet's interests and whims. And even then I am ignoring her here and there. Mama's gotta read the NY times! Breaking news on facebooks! Oh wait, that's your ipad? That telephone, covered in slime, yes that is yours too. How come Frozen plays on everything? Damn convenient and efficient Itunes purchase. $20 is a handy catch-all, until you realize you can never get away from your purchases at all. Let me go!

So the home repair continues on. The kitchen is pretty much done and its exactly what I wanted. Black counter top (and granite tiles at that, can't believe I won that argument against motoboy AND his contractor dad), white cabinets, white subway tile. Soon we will install the vintage glass towel bars too, another debate I handily won because...ummmm, taste? I has it. I do get a little bit weary of all the dust and dirt. Mototboy is so fixated on his projects he is forgetting to do simple things like PUT THE PLATE IN THE SINK and RECYCLE YOUR BEER BOTTLE. But I can't actually argue that he is not doing work so for now I just make sarcy comments and try to keep clean surfaces, like I like them. The dining room has become the center of our particular family firestorm so it tends to collect a lot of random things - mail, art from A's school, tools, family meal detritus...it's a constant battle but there is no pleasure quite like that beautiful red tablecloth all clean and laying flat and pretty with nothing on it. Ahhhh. Clean surfaces. Yes, I have problems. Also, I never really get my way so there's that.

I do get out, maybe once a week. Maybe a bit less, twice a month if I remember. But when I do its very luxurious and I order whatever I want. I will have the $14 glass of wine AND the $18 charcuterie plate. More farro dip and chips? Indeed. Also I really don't get into much trouble anymore because now I drive everywhere and I do have to get home in one piece, eventually. Moms don't sleep in either, even on the weekend, even if you close your eyes so hard and your husband tries to keep the baby quiet, so I also can't physically be interested in staying up late. I tried that last Friday and stayed up till 2.30 - only to be awoken by an upset toddler at 6am. That's like, 3.5 hours sleep. Ouch. Not worth the looong tired day that followed. Lots of Frozen that Saturday.

But baby girl has been so musical lately. Were we all like this at her age? I guess I am impressed at how quickly and at what a young age she can make melody with her voice. I'm sure there is a German or (perhaps, more appropriately) French or Italian word for this. I guess she has been practicing a lot. But to hear her do a cadence, just like how it was written and intended, I am just - dumbfounded. It was only 2 years and a month ago that she was a slimy pudgy thing crying like a cat in the O.R., after I begged for them to slice me open and remove her because she refused to come out and I was tired of being stuck with various things in the hospital.  Now she is singing Frère Jacques and Twinkle Twinkle, ABCs (all the way through, if you don't count the LALALA O, P...). And at the end of the month PERFORMING for us on STAGE at the university where her day care happens to be located. Ok, so maybe that's a bit of a stretch for 2 year olds but I can't wait to see this. I am thinking of hiring a cameraman so I don't have to watch the damn thing through my iphone lens. Proud mama. And grandma is coming in from Cleveland but no b.d.

I have spoken to my partner in writing group, and we do need to start putting aside time again. But what would I even write about? In my 20s I had so much fiery passion. I was world-centric and looking for adventure and frustrated and opinionated and energetic. In my early 30s I started to boil this down to a more comedic way of looking at things, and loved sitting in my overstuffed chair in my apartment, smoking in the window and pontificating here and there. As you can see by the above blog post, I really got nothing. Maybe some half baked stories I could pick up from before but obviously...not there, anymore. Needing new approaches, maybe new genres, maybe characters that are not based in real life? Because my real life characters consist of a man in my house who farts with abandon and a girl who spreads yogurt all over her chair. Oh wait. Maybe this is why people write at all!

Of course, in true college procrastination style, I will have to outfit my writing perch before I truly feel like I can get started. A project for this weekend as it is warmer now, and instead of freezing in the attic is it stifling hot. I will get there. Maybe some new curtains and a comfy chair will help. Oh maybe I have to go shopping first.

See you in a few months!

Kidding, I hope.

E

New House!

That's what my toddler says when we pull up outside after being out for the day. "New House!" I had shown her the pictures on my phone so often, usually because I was showing someone else and they were always queued up. She still calls it New House. I wonder if she will remember that.

At any rate, wow, moving sucks. I do embrace change, obviously I do, I have moved a few times in my life. I used to love it in my 20s, abandoning cities for other cities and relishing finding my way around a new place. But all the while, I do remember the crippling anxiety I would get. Many a wasted afternoon under the duvet, just 'resting' while I take a break from the overhwelming list of tasks and physical effort required. So for this move, I just decided not to eat at all that day, and I threw up anyway. Felt a bit better after that. Moving sucks.

My bestie came to the rescue by flying in with her daughter, who is my daughter's most favorite person in the universe, even though they are 5-6 years apart in age. If I even glance at my phone she calls, nay screams, for me to show her - MIA MIA MIA. So them showing up approximately 5 minutes after the movers was such a sweet comfort. They went to the library, and out to eat, and came back just as we were finishing up.

Still, the whole thing was so surreal. A lot of my moves are like this. You plan for the thing, book the tickets or the movers, sign the lease or the mortgage or what have you, and then when you end up at the place you are still totally fucking shocked that you did it. Driving around with baby I feel like I would be returning to my comfortable little apartment. But I'm not. I pull up to the NEW HOUSE which is big and brick and has arched windows and a basement and a second floor and I have keys to the door and apparently they let people like us own property. I still don't quite believe it.

Motoboy is totally into DIY home improvement and is forever asking my opinions on cabinetry and basement reconfiguration, and window rehab and all I can do is just keep agreeing with him. I see nothing wrong with anything he is proposing. I'm not sure if he wants to have a debate about it? I wish he would preface his topics of rehab with, this is something we are going to have to do this week, this is something we should do this year, or this is something I'd like to do in the next 5 years --  because I can't process it all. He's excited and has energy though so I am going to let him keep going. All I really want to do is nap though. I have bursts here and there of can-do attitude but mostly I am still tired from the move, tired from being sick, and still suffering from some nasal congestion that may or not be related to the sanding and varnishing of the floors that happened just days before we moved. Its hard to be as 'on' like him when I have a constant headache and boogery nose.

We will get there. I bought an air purifier that makes me feel better. Things will be done by the time we have our holiday cocktail housewarming party just before Christmas. Its good to have a goal. Also, the TV is hooked up, the fake fireplace works, and the tree will be up this weekend. I will have a sanctuary from all the DIY. Tell husband, shhhhh. My show is on. Make me another hot whiskey.

E

Chhhhha cha cha changes...

Oh hallo. Guess I got caught up again. I had a great freelance run there from August until...last week. What have we missed out on? Lots of summer trips, busy weekdays, friends and grammas in town. Everything was just flying along like normal until we got THE CALL.

The house. We had fallen in love with this house back in August. The day before I left to fly to see A. in Maine we toured this house. I loved standing in it. Its felt like a home. It felt like our style. I got to the basement and found the little hidden room with a bar, with a faux fireplace, and I stood behind the counter, put my elbows up on the bar and my face in my hands and smiled at motoboy. I like this house, I purred. He did too. (We had never fully agreed on any one house before.) It needed a lot of work though, and it was overpriced. It was our first showing with our new agent and he couldn't believe we were ready to make an offer. He didn't realize we had seen about 20-30 bungalows before this. This was the one. We went to get some BBQ and discussed what we would offer. I liked our new agent because he wasn't afraid to throw around numbers. We came up with one easily. We put in the paperwork that night.

While in Maine, I learned they rejected our offer.  I had been so anxious and thought maybe now I could relax, but it only meant we had to look at more houses, which we were tiring of,  because nothing ever measured up to this one.

Coming home, going back to work, every weekend the house popped up in my emails for having a Sunday open house. This guy thinks open houses are going to work? Every Sunday, the same thing. The only consolation was that the house was still on the market. I could still dream. I was told not to dream. I looked at the listing all the time. They would call our agent from time to time, to see if we were still looking, we played it cool. Finally, in October, the only other place we bid and lost on was an estate listing that I was sure was haunted anyway, we tried THE house again. Added a few more grand. Hoped they were tired of having open houses. They stayed quiet (they had an open house that Sunday), and then at about 8pm, when my friends from Ohio were here, after I had complained that morning that they should just give us the house because it was our house (cue: whining me), we got THE CALL. Our agent called me. Everyone was still eating pizza. I knew from his tone. They accepted our second offer. I had to poop.

What have I done?? How am I married to motoboy and have a baby who looks just like the two of us, combined, and now own a home? Who told us we were allowed to be adults?

Ahh, its great. Its a lot of work and moving pieces and both our subletters fell through for our current apartment, one of whom took us on a tour down lead-paint-lane and led to us having to test the water and glaze the tub, but its cool. We got our house. We might have to pay rent for another month or so but we got it. Or, rather, we will have it tomorrow. (How many xanax do I take before a closing?)

Baby will have a back yard, and a basement, and an attic, and a piano and a pool table and lots of room to run around (and all the stairs have doors that close). And I am magically off work for a few weeks which is really handy because the combination of work and being the EP of my home and move was making what should have been a simple cold turn into a full blown sinus infection but it went away with my first weekend off. And baby is in daycare so I can pack or nap or go to lunch and generally take everything down a notch because internally its revving up anyway.

Whew. We will get there. Can't wait to be on the other side with a Christmas tree and a nice big cocktail, which my husband has made for me in the bar, and a record playing while our fake electric fireplace crinkles and dances in the corner, baby running from room to room chasing the dog. I guess I get it now.

E

Drawing the line...

When I had baby A I knew that things were going to get a bit busier. I was going to be tired a lot. No more going out until all hours and sleeping all day. No more sauntering to the square and trying to decide if I will go to the pub and read my book or go to the movies. No more jumping on a plane on a whim to go see a friend. All of this is ok. She has saved me from a lot of bad habits. She has given me new purpose. She makes me see the world in a wonderful new way.

But one thing I have found that has changed is my tolerance. I'm one of those people that it is very hard to annoy. I am generous with my friends and give them the benefit of the doubt always. I can put up with a lot. It used to take at least three major strikes before I would realize that a friend maybe didn't have my best interests at heart. And in the unfortunate instances when that seemed to be the case, I would allow myself to move on from that relationship.  Things happen, its ok.

But now that I have her I have found that my tolerance can break at a moment's notice. Looking back I can see the patterns that I have put up with for so long. But throw baby into the mix? I put my foot down. I see a bit of red. I round up the carriages and declare war.

So far this has resulted in two big showdowns. One with a friend who I have known for years, and who possibly I have to say goodbye to. And one to a new family member who has rightly apologized and learned a little bit more about me in the process.

Is this a mama bear instict? Or are we just too tired now to let the grown up babies be babies?

Naturally I feel ok about it. She is my main priority and I am not going to apologize for that. But wondering if this is part of nature or just me getting old and cranky?

Here's to putting your foot down, loudly, when needed. Its feels rather good.

E

This summer’s entries seem to all be about travel. That is a good thing. As much as you think with a small child that you are missing out and not doing things, we actually have been doing quite a few. She now has eight states under belt at 16 months. Not too shabby! All her nursery travel posters might not be a joke after all.

Our recent exploration took us east, and north, to the beautiful state of Maine. Baby & I flew a quick 2 hour trip to Manchester, NH on Southwest, The Preferred Airline of Babies and New Parents ™. I just like it. I like driving to midway and leaving my car in the cheapo parking lot with the attentive shuttle busses. I like boarding after the A group. I like that there is no assigned seating so whoever has to sit next to me has chosen to do so (or is last on the plane). I like it that it is usually a big old 747 and not a puddle jumper. Somewhere in the last few years I have developed just the teeny tiniest bit of claustrophobia.

It’s a lot of work packing for a trip alone with baby. I wanted to bring enough, but I only wanted to bring one bag to check. The carry on/diaper bag was the most essential. I knew that I could distract her with food for at LEAST two hours, and then if she wanted to cry in the car on the way to Portland, that would be fine with me too. There’s always pulling over, music, fresh air. And no one else to mind what we do.

So the morning of the trip I had the car packed, organized to go, feeling a bit nauseous but thought if I just got on the road I would be better. Feeling still a bit nervous on the car ride there, a bit more nauseous still and then BOOM. Baby pukes up all her blueberry breakfast all over her car seat and outfit. Well, I guess one of us had to do it. I got us changed and cleaned up before the parking lot, got to airport security and I lost my breath. Standing in line I Just. Felt. Overwhelmed. It’s a lot of responsibility being the adult. I’m the parent! I have to get this kid on a plane and to the other side! I almost got out of line but told myself to just go a few more feet. If I get through and still feel awful, the car is not far. And of course I would feel better once I got in the car headed home, and guilty, disappointed in myself. And my dear friend A. would be so sad. Let’s do this thing!

I think my problem is not with flying itself. I’m fine on the plane. I hate how airports make you feel like cattle. Everyone out for themselves and their own agendas. Employees don’t have to be nice to you, it’s not in their job description anymore. Airplane flight attendants are there for your “safety” and not to serve you drinks. But the secret weapon is actually the baby. Sometimes you get into the easy lane. Sometimes you get a little but more attention, or a thankful grin from a neighbor when they can see that we don’t have a shrieking monster on our hands (this time).

So I got my super surprise upgraded car in Manchester (hello Ford Fusion!) I got to a toll and the woman asked me, “is that a Taurus?” I honestly didn’t even know what it was because at the time I got it, all I noticed was that the car seat was nowhere to be found and then baby fell asleep in her stroller and the kid was a mile down the road getting a few carseats for me to choose from and ok fine it’s a big new Ford and its purple and I’m sure I can drive it. I said, “I don’t know, it’s a rental.” And she just nodded her head and opened the gate for me to move on. What did that mean? Did she like the car? Did she think I was a rich brat for having a new car? Did she prefer Japanese? I was getting my first taste of New England. And I had FORGOT.

People in New England are…reserved. They give you a lot of space. This gets translated in weird ways. Which can sometimes come off as a bit rude or snotty to a Midwesterner. If someone had asked me about the car in the Midwest, you would expect some sort of response, even if it was fake or a lie. “Oh that’s so nice, you have a good day now!” You just say SOMETHING.  A nod, and I was off, confused. Well, it was a toll operator. Lots of other factors there I am sure.

We went to a restaurant for my birthday and the bartender was happy enough (well not very enthusiastically happy, but doing her job properly I suppose) to take our order. After we had all ordered she asked if we wanted to run a tab or close it out then. I said, “well we are waiting for a table so…” and she suddenly got impatient, changed her footing and gave us a stern look. “So you want to close it out.” Brows furrowed, she looks at us. “Umm yeah.” I guess I took too long in explaining? In Chicago you could tell the bartender where you parked and why and they would play along until you paid. We were getting a little bit too friendly with her and I guess it made her uncomfortable.  In New England you give the people the SPACE.

And although A has spent many years in the Midwest, and cultivates a lengthy list of girlfriends from here and elsewhere (including Cleveland) it does give me an enhanced perspective. But she is one of us. She likes elongated explanations. She likes getting in our SPACE.  (We’ve actually been known to cuddle accidentally if sharing a bed.) She likes explaining why she said or did something. But she also is totally unaffected by all the weird New Englandy stuff and that’s why she is the best local ever.

Also she can drink some whiskey and take me to the best diary farm with its own ice cream bar. Twice! And she knows all the good beaches. And restaurants with giant beers and cheese fries.

I had a lovely lovely visit and can’t wait to go back to beautiful Portland again too. It’s a working port town with a lot of charm. Just don’t expect anyone to stand around and blow a lot of smoke up your ass. Ok? Have a nice day now.

Xo

E