Hooray! WP just updated their Blogger import tool and it finally found all of our comments from the Green Wallet. I had almost given up hope on all 2,928 of them. These are still my favorite.
I posted this over at The Mother Runner, but I thought it was applicable over here as well. Besides, I’m too exhausted to write an entirely new post at the moment.
Every mother knows the feeling of having spent so much time doing something only to have it all undone in a fraction of the time. The block tower you spent at least 5 minutes building met its doom at the hands of a nine month old in 5 milliseconds. The cookies you baked were gone before you got to taste them. The sewing project you spent hours on got cut to shreds by a curious toddler in the time it took you to take a shower. The baby you made became a toddler and ran out of your arms before you realized he could even walk.
I remember when I was five or six years old spending an afternoon with my siblings peeling paint off our bedroom wall. It had started to chip a bit and we’d noticed some pretty wallpaper underneath. We chipped and pulled and chipped some more and then brought our mom upstairs to show her our discovery. It was only then that we realized she’d been the one to paint over the wallpaper and she was none too happy to see it exposed to the light of day again.
I was reminded of that this week as we contemplated undoing the painting of our apartment. We’d spent about 2 weeks painting it when we moved in two years ago and we are unexpectedly finding ourselves having to repaint it and move out in 2 weeks. On Sunday night I kept myself awake trying to think of best-case scenarios, hoping we’d somehow be able to get it repainted in half the time it had taken us to paint originally. This time we had two kids instead of one to work around, but we also had two helpers instead of none. My brother and sister who have been spending the summer back East (in DC and here) came to our rescue and by Tuesday afternoon had pretty much blown all my best-case scenarios out of the water. They finished the painting this afternoon, having spent three feverishly humid days with paint-rollers in their hands while I wrangled the boys and tried not to get in the way myself.
I know that back in the day people used to have big families because they needed lots of hands to run the farm. The grow-your-own labor force is less necessary these days, although it is probably still useful on occasions — like when you have to re-paint a room that has somehow become unpainted. However, it means a lot to me that my sis and bro volunteered for the job even though I have no control over their food and boarding. Having them take care of my problem without obligation kind of makes me feel like a little kid again. I owe them big time for undoing what I spent so much time doing two years ago.
Jarom, that’s the closest you’re going to get to seeing me shed happy tears over this, so enjoy it.
It’s entirely possible that I have 100 mosquito bites on my legs right now. I am NOT scratching them.
Last Friday our landlord told us she was raising the rent starting in October. We looked at an apartment Monday, applied for it Tuesday, and heard today that we have been approved. We’ll sign the lease next week and move at the end of the month. The next two weeks are going to be full of painting, packing, and purging. But we think it will be worth the effort.
The fun never ends over here.
Just for the record, our entire family weighs 300 pounds.
We celebrated our 3rd anniversary of being New Yorkers last week. Or of living in New York anyway. We have lived here longer than we lived in Hawaii, longer than I lived in Provo. My first memories of New York involve carrying all of our stuff up two flights of rickety stairs to our tiny apartment in the middle of the night; the infernal humidity brought on by a fierce rainstorm; returning our rental car and taking the train to Target to get ourselves a fan; our gas not being turned on for over a month; three lost boxes that did, eventually, find their way through the mail to us.
I know, it sounds like a miserable start, and yet I only have fond feelings for those days. A lot has changed since then. We made it through grad school, we got a real job, we moved to a “safer” neighborhood, we had another baby. But a lot has stayed the same. The summer humidity. The winter cold. The walking, carrying, catching (and missing) trains. Every day, despite its sameness, is an adventure. You never know what you will see or hear as you walk down the street. Every person is character. We’ve run probably hundreds of miles around Prospect Park. We’ve played in the Atlantic Ocean. We’ve made some great friends, some of whom we’ve already had to say good-bye to. We’ve picked up furniture off the road, we’ve become obsessed with real estate. We’ve learned the lingo and can sometimes talk back with the best of them. Sometimes I wonder, How do we manage to live here? How would we truly live anywhere else? So, I wouldn’t say we’re real New Yorkers yet, but we’re well on our way.
Probably the only thing cuter than Oliver taking his first steps on his wobbly little legs is the way he claps for himself . . . three minutes later.
That’s what we keep hearing about these days. When Simon goes to school, he is going to be five. He is going to have a black party, with a black cake, and he is going to share with his friend Daniela (his baby-sitter). He is going to take the train to Coney Island. He is going to run a half-marathon. He’s going to go to Tradewise (grocery store) and then take a train to IKEA and when he’s done with IKEA he’s going to go to school. He’s going to school on the other side of the park. He’s going to wear a t-shirt, shorts, sandals and sunglasses when he goes to school. And after that he is going to have a pudding pop.
We ran to the beach on Saturday. You can read more about the run here. It was a momentous occasion, not only because it was our first trip to the beach since we moved here 3 years ago, but because we got to introduce Oliver to the ocean. Oliver is our water baby. He comes crawling as fast as he can whenever we start running the bath water. There have been a few times that he has almost gone head first into the tub, such is his love for the water. We expected him to love splashing around in the Atlantic. We did not factor his hatred of cold into our expectations. It went something like this:
Yeah. Oliver+Ocean=not so much. His brother, the one who runs in the other direction when the bath water is running, couldn’t get enough of the water. He begged us the entire time to take him back in the water. We’d take him until we couldn’t stand the cold any more (or the shells we were standing on), and then we’d warm up and he’d ask to be taken out again. Not at all what we expected. Not by a long shot.
I, for one, can hardly wait to go back in a couple of weeks.