When bad choices happen to good kids
We all have to face it sometime; and we can be left weak with worry and doubt. Is my child normal? Did I do something to deserve this? Should we increase therapy to twice a week? Relax. Bad choices sometimes happen to even the best of children. It happens because their brains aren’t yet fully formed, and–in some cases–because they are male.
Learn to accept these transgressions for what they are: perfectly normal. Practice going to your “happy place” when the urge to devour your young hits. Your children will survive to adulthood, and you’ll have the grey hair to prove you worked hard to get them there.
I offer you a few recent examples from my homestead:
Monkey: Moooooooo-oooooooom! Chickadee keeps copying me!
Chickadee: Moooooooo-oooooooom! Chickadee keeps copying me!
In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to tell her that a simple “Am not!” would’ve served her better in this instance….
Monkey: *snakes his hand up under my shirt*
Me: No, buddy… that’s private. You don’t belong under my shirt.
Monkey: *rubs his hands together, I kid you not, and with the most charming of smiles reaches out does the double-honk on my breasts*
There is no therapy fund in the world to cover this train wreck….
Chickadee: Oh yeah? Well… well… when I’m old enough to drive, I’m gonna go live with Daddy!!!
Would it be poor form to throw a party now, or should I wait…?
Monkey: Mama, I love you bunches and bunches.
Me: Awww, that’s sweet, buddy. I love you bunches and bunches too.
Monkey: And Mama? I will love you forever.
Me: I’ll love you forever too, sweetheart.
Monkey: And it’s okay that sometimes you scream at me all mean and your face turns red.
See what I mean about being male? He could’ve had a pony out of this one if only he’d known when to stop talking.
Chickadee: Mama, I’ve almost read this whole book! See?
Me: That’s great, honey, but I need you to get dressed for school now.
Chickadee: “So, sometimes, even Mamas make mistakes.” The irony of this being the favorite book of the moment is not lost on me, by the way.
Me: I’ll make you a deal. Put the book down and get your clothes on. If you do it quick enough, you’ll still have time to finish the book after. Okay?
Chickadee: Okay, Mama!
Me: *leave the room*
Chickadee: “My Mama says there definitely isn’t any ghost–”
Me: CHICKADEE! GET DRESSED!
Rule one of disobeying: it helps to at least attempt to be sneaky. If you can’t read without doing it out loud, it’s mighty hard to get away with it.
Monkey: *crash* *thump* WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!
Me: *running into the bedroom* Honey! Are you okay?
Monkey: WAAAHHHHH! My head! My leg! My arm! (All appear to still be attached.)
Me: Poor baby. What happened?
Monkey: I don’t know. I fell.
Me: I see. Were you jumping on the bed?
Monkey: No!
Me: Are you sure?
Monkey: I wasn’t jumping on the bed! I was trying to climb the wall like Spiderman!
Obviously the house rules need to be made more explicit….
Monkey: *crash* *thump* WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!
Me: *running into the family room* Honey! Are you okay?
Monkey: WAAAHHHHH! My head! My leg! My arm! (All appear to still be attached.)
Me: Poor baby. What happened?
Monkey: I don’t know. I fell.
Me: Chickadee, did you see what happened?
Chickadee: WELL I DIDN’T PUSH HIM!
Monkey: Yes you diiiiiiid!
Chickadee: NO! He ran into my fist when I was just sitting here!
Hmmmmm…. Note to self: go over both the concepts of full disclosure and more plausible cover stories, again.
Me: Monkey, please take your finger out of your nose.
Monkey: It’s itchy.
Me: Then go get a tissue. We do not put fingers in our noses.
Monkey: A tissue doesn’t work. I have to get the itchy part way in there.
Me: Monkey, putting your fingers in your nose is gross. There are germs in your nose, and you’re getting them all over your hands, doing that.
Monkey: That’s okay, Mama… my hands are already germy cuz I put my finger in my tushie before.
Really, I didn’t even know where to begin with this one.
I could keep going, but you get the general idea. Breathe deeply… think happy thoughts… and forge ahead. It’s okay. Chances are, you have at least one friend with a story that trumps even your worst. Whenever I’m feeling discouraged in this area, all Eileen has to say to me is “Mama, can you get the snack out of my nose?” (a legendary story in her house) and I feel better. And when all else fails… a quick reminder that this is all going to be wonderful embarrassment fodder when they’re older is remarkably cheering.
One duck in the row, anyway
I know you have been losing sleep ever since I wrote the letter asking for a refund of summer camp deposits for the kids. You have been waiting on pins and needles to know the outcome of this very pressing matter, I know. Well, pace no more! Rest easy. In their infinite wisdom, the association in question has magnaminously decided to refund the overage in the form of a credit on our account.
Errrrr… okay. Of course, “our” account is, in fact, the ex’s account. This means the cost of swim lessons will now be covered for the next several sessions, and I can maybe recoup some of that money from him. As soon as I learn how to squeeze blood from a stone.
But I now have the illusion of having a small victory, there, and at least I don’t have to think about it any more. Too much. Well, there is the small matter of choosing between bringing it up to the ex or stabbing out my own eyeballs, but I can decide that one later.
Mine is a life of ambiguous triumphs.
The Purpose-Driven Snacker
As of today I have completed a small group course of study based on Rick Warren’s The Purpose-Driven Life. I am still finishing up the book, and I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to feel completely inadequate. Ha! No! Just kidding. I recommend it to anyone who feels their life must surely be part of a “bigger picture” and wants to learn more. Rick Warren is a fascinating guy with an interesting take on things. Many of his ideas transcend “things that make you go ‘hmmm'” and head straight into “things that make your head want to explode.” As a divorced Christian reared in Jewish guilt, this is the kind of thing that makes my heart sing, I tell you.
Anyway. To mark our last meeting, we decided to have a potluck lunch together. This is partially because Methodists love to eat and partially because Warren actually talks about the role of eating together in fellowship several times (both within the book, and on the companion video the class uses). He points out that Jesus often dined with the disciples and taught during meals. This is, he says, because “it is impossible not to be relaxed while eating.” Thus, this is a good time to learn.
It is impossible not to be relaxed while eating?? Well, now I have learned… that Rick Warren is not a woman. Which I think I may have already known. But just for the record, yes, Rick Warren has never tried to scarf a meal down while refereeing two bickering children discussing when their “butt’s birthdays” are (yes, really), Rick Warren has never eaten an entire bag of oreos after being laid off in the midst of a nasty divorce, and Rick Warren has most certainly never had a meal or even a snack while his heart was broken or he had PMS. Check.
I do agree with the “teachableness” (is that a word?) of feast times, though. You want me to accept Jesus Christ as my savior when there’s a big basket of Pepperidge Farm Raspberry Milanos in front of me? Sure thing. I will also revere the lint in your belly button if you throw in a scoop of Ben & Jerry’s World’s Best Vanilla. So he may be on to something about the connection between evangelism and eating, but I don’t think relaxation has anything to do with it.
I could be wrong, though. If you think I am, come on over with some snacks and we can discuss it.
Cramps. Make. Me. Cranky.
So… uh… Nerds On Site? Some news flashes for you:
1) The word “tomorrow” refers to the day following this current one. It’s not complicated. Saying that the user counter feature will be back online “tomorrow” for three days straight is not only incorrect usage, and false advertising, but it’s not a good way to make a loyal user out of a client with PMS.
2) The date “May 31st”–although perhaps a seemingly safer substitute for the word “tomorrow”–was yesterday. That’s the day before this current one. Do not promise a fix by a certain date, after days of lying about tomorrow, and then fail to deliver, unless you wish to be ridiculed. (Maybe they like that sort of thing…?)
3) Your little scripty thingie has the annoying habit of bringing the page load to a screeching halt when it can’t figure out what to do. This slows things down and often makes the following apps just whimper and fail to execute. When my blogroll doesn’t load, I get annoyed.
4) Fast Online Users is my bitch, now. But thanks for the laughs.
(Just imagine if they had touched my chocolate….)
Ode to Gadgets
This afternoon we went to the store and bought a watermelon roughly the size of my new mailbox. It is in this watermelon’s honor that I offer you… the Top 5 Gadgets I Love Most.
1) The Melon Baller: What a tremendous invention. I mean, it’s so simple, yet so brilliant. Here I am with my watermelon, and the Chickadee wanting some right now pleasepleaseplease oh puhleeeeeeeezeMama, and no hip waders in sight. No worries. I have a melon baller! No longer do I have to grab a knife suitable for filleting an entire steer and hack this thing to bits while withstanding the tidal wave of sticky watermelon juice. I can grab said knife simply for sawing that bad boy in half, and then go to work with the melon baller. All the extra juice stays neatly contained in the rind, I have two gigantic rinds rather than an endless pile of rind-bones, and let’s face it–shaped food is more fun to eat, particularly when you’re a little kid. Everybody wins!
And by the way? My melon baller isn’t even the thousand-dollar Pampered Chef version. I think I got it at the Dollar Store. Works just fine.
2) The Can Crusher: Every woman, and I mean every single woman should own a can crusher. Heck, even if you don’t drink Diet Coke with Lime, in which case I wonder what kind of freakish life you lead without this nectar of the Gods, but okay, you still need a crusher! GO GET ONE RIGHT NOW! I leave my cans in a designated area until I feel like killing someone. It usually only takes a day or two. And then I head on out to the garage and start crushing cans. Can I tell you? It’s soooooo gratifying. The cans make a very rewarding THWCH-EEEEEK sound as they crumple into hockey pucks. Plus it saves room in the recycling bin, and the children think you’re some sort of savior environmentalist when really you’re just replaying every idiot encounter word for word except it ends with said idiot’s head going THWCH-EEEEEK.
3) The Wireless Card: Requires no explanation, really. I remember when I thought surfing the ‘net in my pajamas was the height of sloth; I was aiming low. Now my laptop lives under my bed, and when I really want to be a lazy American I just pull it out and surf without even pulling back the covers. Yeah, baby.
4) The Weemote: Oh, your kids don’t watch TV? Mine don’t either. When they’re at school. Or asleep. Anyway, when they do, I don’t have to change the channel for them anymore. Nor do I have to fly into action as a one-woman censor because they’re crossing inappropriate channels. This was well worth the $10 or so I spent on it.
5) The Digital Camera: Hi, I’m Mir… and I am… the world’s worst photographer. Also, I am lucky to remember to clean myself and keep track of both children every day. I have no interest in remembering to drop off and pick up film–particularly because it involves large sums of money, which I tend not to have–for pictures which, on the whole, will suck. In fact, I am such a terrible photographer, I take pictures that are capable of both sucking and blowing, simultaneously. (One could argue that that makes me a gifted photographer, but one would have to have quite a lot to drink before feeling the need to make that assertion.) Thanks to going digital, I am still a lousy photographer, but I am improving (because I take a lot more pictures than I used to) and I’m not losing any money. Sweet.
Yes, I really did just put the advent of affordable digital photography into the same category as scooping melon flesh. It’s part of my charm.
Through a glass, ever-so-slightly less darkly
My Chickadee sometimes drives me completely insane. You know how chickadees were named for their call? “Chickadee-dee-dee-dee-deeeeee! Chickadee-dee-dee-dee-deeeeee!” My daughter’s nickname evolved because she, too, twitters constantly and loves the sound of her own name (as in, if there’s talking going on, it had better be either by her or about her, or she’ll set things straight). If I had a nickel for every time I’ve said “You know, honey… when you don’t have anything to say, it’s okay to stop talking,” I’d be a wealthy woman.
Marcey calls her my “prickly pear.” Eileen says she’s “complex.” Her teachers tell me (with a smile that conveys fondness seasoned with exasperation) that “she’s got a mind of her own.” I forget who told me she’s “an old soul” but I find that one particularly apt. And her therapist loves to remind me that “she’s got a lot going on in there.” My parents and I, of course, got right to the crux of the matter.
She’s my Mini-Me. (Lord help us all.) Different, of course, but eerily similar in so many of the ways I’d hoped she wouldn’t be. There’s nothing quite like seeing both your most vulnerable and most spectacular selves blended and reincarnated in the more compact, extra-melodramatic, yet less cynical model.
It’s been a long couple of years for our family, and through it all I worried most about her. She seemed to bend under the strain more than was possible for a child of her age. My outgoing, precocious little girl went from acting out (not fun; but understandable, and to be expected) to pulling back into herself until I thought I would drop from the fear and exhaustion of trying to extract her once again. Bit by bit, she came back to us, and it’s true: kids are more resilient than you think. She’s okay. She still seems to feel things more deeply than some, and holds onto angst a little longer, but she’s learning how to cope and feel okay (aren’t we all?). And she’s now a “normal” 6-year-old: obsessed with the tooth fairy, alternately protective and tormenting of her little brother, mouthy as all get-out, loving being able to read, adoring her little friends, and quite secure in the knowledge that I am becoming dumber and more unreasonable with each passing moment. It’s a beautiful thing.
Ever since the Chickadee could talk, bedtime has been an introspective time for her. The day is done, I’m half-asleep myself, and hoping she’ll skip off to dreamland the second I kiss her goodnight… but no. When she was younger, bedtime was when she would Why? Why? Why? about all manner of minutiae. When she was falling apart from the stress of being so angry and not knowing how to express it, bedtime triggered hysterical crying about every wrong–real or feared–ever visited upon the world. I came to dread bedtime. I would talk her down as best I could, and then–more often than not–once I got her settled, go downstairs and have a good sob, myself.
I know this weird bedtime affliction. I have it, too. You want to rest and drift away, and your mind wants to first resolve the unresolvable, find evidence that Things Are Right. I don’t relish this particular feature of mine and I doubt my daughter does, either.
But bedtime is becoming a better time for both of us. As I lay down with her tonight and she filled me in on the last few days’ adventures that I’d missed, I stroked her forehead and felt her relax under my touch just briefly. Her tale of the zoo complete, she turned to me and flung her arms around my neck. “Mama, I don’t want the doctor to give your tummy a boo-boo! I’m feeling scared about that!” Tears came to my eyes. I’m feeling scared about that, too… but I was also so proud, and grateful, that this little one who once folded in on herself and hid can now recognize and vocalize her fear… and she lets me in to help make her feel better. I know grown-ups who have yet to make it that far. So we talked about it, some, and I offered reassurances and reminded her of the last time I had surgery and how that worked out okay, etc.
Bringing up the last surgery caused her to switch gears; she went to a different school, then, and she started remembering friends she hadn’t seen in a while, and asking why she’d changed schools, and would she ever see them again, and what about next year, and her friends now? This is how I found myself, this evening, having a heart-to-heart with my firstborn about the Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas. We’re always choosing our path, and we can always look back and wonder what might have been different, but how does that make you feel? “Kind of yucky,” she confessed. (Me, too.) We talked about all the great things the school change had brought… and how next year, when she changes schools yet again, more good things will happen, and maybe a few not-so-good things, too, but it’s our choice what we dwell on.
I wanted to tell her that I’m no better at it than she is; that if I thought I could get away with it, I’d stamp my feet and demand to know what would’ve happened if… and but why…, too. But I played with her hair, instead, and talked of all the things that don’t change, that anchor us amidst all the stuff that does. After a while she was ready to rest, and I promised we can talk more about this tomorrow.
Only I know, from experience, that tomorrow she will content herself with which pretties need to go in her hair and whether the chicks at school have hatched yet and how many things will the Monkey really do at her command before I break up her benevolent dictatorship? She bounces back (until bedtime, anyway). I’m trying to learn from her example, even as I hope to teach her from mine. I’m pretty sure I’m getting the better end of the deal. (Please remind me of this tomorrow when we’re late for school and she spills her milk everywhere….)
Fritters, anyone
There are words that so skillfully convey their intention that they just taste right. The perfection of them make me want to weep with joy… unless, of course, I’m dealing with life and not just sitting around savoring words. But I gave myself a few seconds, just now, to roll the world “fritter” around in my mouth and brain before I commence Freaking. Out.
Alas, I have frittered away my weekend. In my mind’s eye I can actually conjure an image of useful time units fluttering away in the breeze as I toss them from a decorative basket, giggling. It’s not just any weekend, either. It’s a long weekend and it’s nearly my last kid-free weekend pre-surgery (“pre-surgery” translating to “when I can hope to accomplish anything in this life”), and my to-do list is still a mile long. Where has my time gone? Why haven’t I completed more projects? How many things can I pack in between now and the children’s return in a mere eight hours??
In fairness to myself, I did finish a few things that Needed Doing. The weekend hasn’t been a total wash, productivity-wise. Also, I hear that enjoying yourself or even just being a slug once in a while is encouraged–maybe even recommended–for well-adjusted humans. (Having never really made it past partially-adjusted, myself, this is a murky area for me.) And while neither my behind or my to-do list will thank Marcey for stuffing me with Edy’s Peanut Butter Cup ice cream last night while we made fun of While You Were Out, my soul thanks her profusely.
All that remains to me now is prioritizing the rest of the items on the list and deciding how frenetic I wish the remainder of my day to be. Hmmmm. And I need to do this while fighting against the Homer Simpson portion of my brain which has said naught but “Mmmmmm, fritters!” since I woke up this morning. (There is nothing to eat here, I tell you. Crap. Add “go for groceries” to the list.)
Mailbox Mania
So… uh… I forgot to mention one teeny little pertinent bit of information in the peanut butter nuts story. The gifted gentleman in question? My pastor. Church today? A little weird.
(Help me, Oh Lord… disturbing images flit through my brain….)
I came home ready to tackle A Project. My kid-free weekends are full of Projects, because anyone who’s undertaken A Project with their offspring’s “help” knows that while it may build memories that last a lifetime, it also tends to make said project take a lifetime. Today, being a bright, gorgeous day even better (warmer) than yesterday, seemed ideal for undertaking The Mailbox Transplant.
The mailbox that came with this house was in sad shape from day 1. I suspect it to be original to the property. It is metal, clearly repainted several times but rusting through anyway, tilting to the left as if caught in a perpetual gust, and falling apart. First the flag fell off; that was repaired with an oversized nut and bolt, which meant the flag remained attached but required Herculean strength to be coaxed to move at all. Next, the handle broke off the door, and despite a couple of attempts to re-rig it, it was never right again. I often find the mailbox wide open, which is maybe annoying in the nice weather, but downright gross during a nor’easter. (One could argue you’re not truly a New Englander until you’ve had a mailbox full of snow… but I’d rather retain my Annoying Outsider Who Still Bitches About The Weather status, thanks.)
So I’ve been meaning to replace that mailbox for ages. Unfortunately, I suffer from a unique learning disability wherein I will periodically go to Home Despot, look at the mailboxes, complain to anyone who will listen that “that’s an insane amount of money for a plastic box!”, leave in a huff, and manage to forget all of this and do it again a few months later. And again a few months later. And… well, you get the idea. Money’s tight. The existing mailbox works… sort of.
A couple of weeks ago I happened upon a yard sale in the process of packing up. I hopped out of my car to have a quick look, and lookie here! A brand new mailbox, still sealed in the carton, for $10. The cheapest one I’d ever seen at Home Despot was $35. I popped that puppy in the back of the car, threw it in the garage when I got home, and forgot about it, because it then proceeded to rain for two weeks straight.
Today I was ready! Yes sir! First, let’s extract the old mailbox. No problem. It was attached to the post with… four rusty nails, two defunct yellow jacket nests, and three strange little egg-sac-looking thingies that I really don’t want to think too much about. Ick. But I managed to take off the old box with my trusty hammer, a little elbow grease, and a lot of muttering. Time to unveil the new mailbox.
I will grant you this: a more observant person would’ve thought–upon seeing the mailbox carton–“Wow! That has got to be one big-ass mailbox!” But not me. No, I can be kind of oblivious, sometimes. I don’t know what I thought. Maybe I thought the mailbox was packed in protective styrofoam. Maybe I thought my new mailbox came with a bonus pony. Maybe I just never really looked at the damn box. I’m really not sure. Regardless, I was stunned to open the box and find… a mailbox exactly the same size as the box it was packed in (minus a millimeter or so all around, if you want to be picky about it). This was not a mailbox I had purchased. This was a mailbox-shaped shed. I had a fleeting image of myself at the height of exasperation, shouting, “I have HAD IT! No more bickering! YOU–go sit on the stairs! YOU–go sit in the mailbox!”
It’s Really Really Big. The Hummer of mailboxes, one might say.
Surprise gave way to delight (dude, I paid $10 for the $50 model! and entire boxes will fit in here!), which soon gave way to panic (what if it was too big to mount on the support pole?). I dragged it down to the end of the driveway to have a looksie. It could be done… maybe. The crossbar that the previous mailbox had been nailed to was too narrow for this monstrosity; the nailholes in the bottom straddled the bar with several inches to spare on either side. Hmmmm. With a platform mailed to the crossbar, and then the mailbox attached to the platform, this could work. Hopefully the neighbors just won’t notice that their mailbox would now be cowering in the shadow of mine.
I went back to the garage to scavenge. Of course I didn’t have any wood scraps the right size. But I did have some plywood that could be cut to size. And because I’d already taken down and totally dented the other mailbox I am woman, hear me roar, you betcha I grabbed a saw and cut myself the most gorgeous mailbox platform in the history of humankind. It only took me a couple of hours minutes. A few more minutes to find the can of nails, and I was in business.
Platform nailed to crossbar? Check. Mailbox positioned on platform? Check. Nails pounded through mailbox into platform piece? Check. Now the moment of truth… grab mailbox… give a good pull… shake it a little… still attached? Check!
All that was left was The Ritual Of The Sticky Reflective Letters And Numbers. I put my house number on the front, centered as best I could manage, given that the numbers are about two inches tall and the face of the mailbox is about the size of my car. Then I casually checked out the format of my neighbors’ information on the side of their box… first initial, last name, street address. Okay. I can do that, and perhaps with some uniformity as a gesture of goodwill and an attempt to blend in, they won’t laugh so much when they see what I’ve done. First initial… last name… street number again… street name. Done! A quick check of my remaining letters ruled out appending the entire Constitution to the remaining space.
I stepped back to admire my handiwork. Not bad. And thank God, there’s a family down the road who recently took down their perfectly serviceable mailbox in favor of something that looks like a shellacked cat. It may still be a mailbox of some sort, I’m not sure… but there are in fact dangling paws and a tail and–the crowning touch–a large, leering orange head. I may have to walk down there and thank these folks for saving me from having the most obnoxious mailbox on the street.
He’s got what?!
It turns out that if you are spending a holiday weekend alone (i.e., without children), you will be inundated with invitations from friends who are sure that you may well shrivel up and die from a little peace and quiet. This rates very highly in the warm-n-fuzzy department.
I have just returned from dinner with friends. The only caveat on my joining them for the evening was that I please not cough in the salad. (I didn’t.) I wasn’t sure I felt up to socializing tonight but I’m very glad I went. The food was great, the company even better, and had I stayed home, I would’ve missed this little proclamation:
“Daddy’s got peanut butter in his nuts!!”
Cue abrupt halt to all conversation. Thank you, friends’ five-year-old son. Everyone else (4 adults and a 10-year-old, in all) was trying not to laugh but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut (shocking, I know). “That’s… really more information than I needed.” I guess any semblance of decorum was a lost cause after that. (Although I don’t think his mother had to kick me quite so hard as she did, under the table.) He laughed right along with us, not knowing why, which made it even funnier.
Turns out he was trying to tell us that his Daddy is the only one in the house who likes crunchy peanut butter (nuts in his peanut butter). It just didn’t come out quite right. And now I can never look his father in the eye again.
I love like need have my house
Before I forget, I want to thank everyone who participated in Facts and Fiction Friday. I had a good time, and I hope you did, too. Let’s play again next week! (Sometimes, it takes remarkably little to entertain me.)
My cold is improving, I think. By improving I mean that once I’d been up an entire hour this morning and didn’t feel the need to go back to bed, I decided I was well enough to tackle the lawn. It is beautiful here today, bright and sunny and cool and oh yeah, not raining, which is about damn time unusual.
Quick check of my lovely self: I spent all day yesterday in my pajamas, so the thought of going outside without a shower was… uhhhh… frightening. But the thought of showering in preparation for lawnmowing? Preposterous. I threw on some sweats and a little extra deodorant and put my hair in a ponytail and called it good. A couple of Advil Cold and Sinus and two puffs on my trusty inhaler and I was soon allreadytogo.
Themowerdidn’twanttostartdammit. Ipulledandpulled. Itstarted! Yay! Thisisn’tsobad, Ifeelprettygoodinfact. Imowedandmowedandmowedand wasdoing prettywell… untilthe Albuterol started wearing… off… and I started… coughing again… but I kept going… and going… and g o i n g….
Lawn. All. Done.
Must. Die. Now. Thanks. Seeya.
No, no worries, it’s all okay. I’m fine. I came inside and lay down on the kitchen floor for a while… nice comfy tile… and then I drank, oh, I dunno… about 64 ounces of water… and then I came in here and sat down, and it looks like I’m gonna live. But as a result of this fun morning I am once again woulda-coulda-shoulda-ing about the Joys Of Owning Your Own Home.
My house is something of a conundrum. I have lived here for four years. With the exception of the house I grew up in, this is the longest I have lived in any one place my entire life. This is the only house my children know (Chickadee sometimes speaks of “the red house” but I don’t think she remembers it, she just enjoys the stories about it). Being well in-touch with my tolerance for stress and change, I made it clear during the divorce that many things were up for negotiation, but this house was not. This is Our Home (mine and the kids) and we were not moving.
Part of my motivation was Keeping Change To A Minimum, both for me and for the kids. The other part of the equation is this bizarre little town we live in, and how real estate works here. Moving out of town was never a question; if we stay in this general area (yes), this is the town with the school system we want. Period. But to relocate within town? Heh. Lemme tell ya about my town. When we bought this house, the sellers were relocating back to the midwest and had just had a deal fall through at the last minute. They wanted OUT and they wanted out FAST. They didn’t know that our realtor had shown us this house when it was (unbeknownst to her) under negotiation already, and we’d fallen completely in love with it. We would’ve happily paid their first asking price, which was on the low side for this area. But after the deal gone bad, they reduced the price. Woohoo! We scored our dream house, at quite a bit under market for this area.
Four years have gone by, and I have since learned that I live in the “less fashionable” section of town. Heh. I can live with being less fashionable. Remember when I left the garage door open all night? I wouldn’t call this a low-crime area so much as a no-crime-other-than-the-occasional-drunk-teen area. The house has appreciated, both due to time and some work we put into it, and is now worth Quite A Bit Of Money. It’s also a good-sized house, suitable for the gaggle of children we’d planned on having, but bordering on too big for just me and two kids.
So the logical option: sell this house, buy a smaller one, in this town. Well, thanks for trying to make sense, but no. Not here. Sorry. First of all, there are very few small houses in this town that aren’t located two feet off the highway. The ones that aren’t located in places that make me picture my children very flat and very dead are new construction, and oh yeah, they cost so much money it makes me want to ask what are these people smoking, and can I please have a toke? They cost more than this house, despite being half the size or smaller. This house is A Very Good House, on an acre of land; but it does not have a new kitchen, or fancy bathrooms, or central air conditioning, or shiny titanium appliances, or a roof shingled with gold bullion. It appears that many new houses in the area have many of these things because People Want Them.
It was a matter of great excitement for me when the town announced plans to build an “income-controlled” community of 2- and 3-bedroom houses. I phoned my friend Sue, who is a realtor, to ask about the waiting list. It was full. And had been, actually, since before the announcement. Turns out, it didn’t matter, because the 3-bedroom houses? About 5% less, cost-wise, than the value of this house. After brokering fees and moving costs? I’d be in the hole. Scratch that.
Looks like I’m staying here. Which means I need to mow the never-ending who-needs-this-much-stupid-grass-anyway lawn, and paint the fence periodically (did that about a month ago and it took an entire day and I got a wicked sunburn… and today I chipped one of the posts with the mower), and have the septic pumped, and do all the other things that one needs to do when one owns a house. And I need to remind myself that these are all Good Things, because I really do love this house. I do. In sickness and in health… oh crap. Turns out I’m more committed to this house than I was to my marriage. Is that bad?