Mom in the Mirror

Vitamin C for the eyes

We've moved, and for now that's enough.

I'll spare you the moving company horrors and just say that I was frustrated and furious by the time I walked into our new home late yesterday. And then...

...I saw the orange walls in our living room and was instantly cheered.

We weren't sure when we picked the color whether it would be too bold. And just yesterday Gary was saying we'd have to go with something else. But when I walked in and felt my spirits lift, that all changed. We're sticking with the Vitamin C walls. I could use the extra protection.

We managed to have a very nice first night of Hanukkah. We lit the candles and the best part was saying the Shehechyanu, a blessing that means "Thank you God for enabling me to reach this moment." Thank you very much.

And thank you all for the extra good wishes. I know they helped.

Taking stock

I think I'm having the meltdown now. The packers come tomorrow, then they move us on Tuesday. And in spite of Gary's tremendous work, and my tremendous anxiety, the house is not "ready," by which I mean: the walls are not yet painted, the cleaners left more dirt than they removed, and I anticipate weeks of no place for anything and nothing in its place.

More painful, though is this realization: even with many more months of preparation, the house would never have been "ready" by my standards, because I would have just continued to add things to the list. Which is why I will never catch up. I will never be without "to do"s or the nagging sense that I'm falling behind. This is my Sisyphean rock.

Meanwhile, the apartment we've been living in for two years is also a mess, partly because we've been neglecting it lately and partly because I've been sorting through old clothes, old journals, and old memories -- taking an unintentional emotional inventory.

Which is how I realized what's really upsetting me: a childhood memory.

I was about 8 years old the first time I ever moved. That day, my father was shuttling our belongings from old house to new when my then-teenage sister and my mother started yelling at each other, as they often did. As the fight escalated, my sister threw a small brown paper bag at my mother. The bag happened to have a picture frame in it, which cut my mother's forehead, which sent her to the hospital for stitches and caused my grandmother (who was a bystander, like me) to faint.

Somehow, I guess we actually moved from 416 Beverly Drive to 110 Carriage Way, but I don't know how.

I know my mother and sister spent several weeks at the same psychiatric hospital just after moving day, and while I'm sure at some point the four of us all lived in the new house, I don't remember it.

I remember my mother breaking her leg in a car accident a few months later and taking me with her to Florida so she could "recuperate" (actually, she and my father separated). I remember hearing that my sister had moved out of that house and into the city. And I remember my parents fighting long distance for years about their divorce, whether to sell the house and who would get the money.

It's no wonder I hate moving. And no mystery why I make lengthy lists. It's a form of optimism, really, that things can be better -- things will be better -- if only I can stay one step ahead of the insanity.

Moving meltdown

It was bound to happen, and today it did. As Colter was starting to do his homework (35 minutes of writing about his holiday plans), he screamed, "I don't want to move. I never wanted to move. I didn't want to move from North Carolina and I hate my school and I hate my life!"

Just moments before he was telling me how much he loves his life, so either (a) he's bipolar with rapid cycles, (b) he really hates doing homework, (c) he's worried about moving, (d) all of the above.

I'm going with (b) and (c) for now; (a) is a possibility I can't even consider at the moment.

We talked for a while about why he hates this particular homework, and it turns out his teacher had him read a previous writing assignment to the class yesterday and they laughed at it. Colter -- like me -- doesn't enjoy doing things he doesn't do well, and he feels like he's a bad writer. So, he avoids it, which is tough since he's assigned 30 minutes of writing a week.

He's also starting to realize we're really moving, and this is the second time in two years that we've done so over the holidays. I didn't even consider the effect that would have on him, and if I had, I might have moved at a different time.

Plus, last year, I told him we would "be here" for the holidays. I meant here in Florida, that we wouldn't be traveling to North Carolina or Chicago. In his mind, he heard, "We'll be here in this apartment for the holidays," so he also believes I've broken a promise.

On Monday the moving company will come pack our lives into boxes. On Tuesday they will move us a few miles away to our renovated house.

Meanwhile, what do I do for my son?

Not home yet

On Sunday, we excorcised in our new house. Well, not really, but I did ring bells throughout the house and light incense and do all kinds of voo-doo I don't normally do. As Gary put it, it isn't that we want the spirits to leave, just that we want them to find peace.

Unfortunately, we know way too much about the house's previous owners and even though we're knocking out ceilings, pulling out carpet, and painting practically every surface, some bad vibes remain.

So, in addition to communing with the spirits yesterday, I also hung out in the sun room and read a book while Gary worked on the house.

Slowly, it is becoming ours. And quickly, we will be moving in.

What did you do to make your house a home?

Take a number

There are some addresses and phone numbers I cannot get out of my head. Like, "Write Zoom, Z-double-O-M, Box 350, Boston, Mass, 0-2-1-3-4" ... or "588-2300, EMPIRE."

I can still remember the address of the house where I grew up: 416 Beverly Drive. But I can't remember my childhood phone number. Or the phone number after that (110 Carriage Way), or the phone number after that. My stepmother recently moved from the home we lived in for 20 years, and I can't get that phone number out of my mind or remember her new home number.

I was thinking about this because I just learned that when we move in a few weeks, we'll have a new phone number. Which means Colter will need to learn a new home number and address.

It seems like such a small thing, but when I told him, he was really upset. More upset than he's been about anything else related to this move, so far. And in a way I can't explain, I understand.

What is it about some numbers?

Post-Traumatic House Disorder

After months of looking, falling in love, falling out of love, offering, counter-offering, countering counter-offers and general misery, we actually closed on a house yesterday.

Time to celebrate, right?

Not exactly.

I think the stress of the experience finally got to us. While we should have been happy, Gary and I both found ourselves snapping at Colter, who seemed to be particularly annoying. Which makes perfect sense if you think about how incredibly tense we had been all day (it looked like they might not get out of house by closing), and how tense that must have made him. And yet, it felt so awful.

To help us recover, we ate a Marshall Field's Frango Mint Chocolate Cheesecake. Definitely a recipe for recovery.

Hurricanes, houses, hormones, and hives

Well, the inspection of our new house was this morning and -- surprise! -- there was some unexpected bad news (excess moisture in two sections of wall, and more termite damage than we thought). Plus, there's a hurricane bearing down on the state of Florida again.

As I was talking to my wonderfully caring and sweet husband this morning, he sensed my stress and said, "Well, you are about to get your --"

I interrupted him before he could give me grounds for divorce. "No, you are not about to say that! You're not," I said. He asked, "Are you smiling?" I said, "Yes. I'm smiling, but I'm also blogging in my head."

Now, I have hives. Really. I got the first batch yesterday just after lunch, and today just after lunch, they are rising again. Help?

Bananas in the backyard

Thanks to all of you who told me the right house would find us, it did -- yesterday -- and today we are officially under contract.

What sealed the deal for me: the combination of location (within walking distance of downtown Safety Harbor) and charm (terrazzo floors and lots of beadboard trim).
What sealed the deal for Gary: the extra space (it's three bedrooms plus a study) and the price (it was $30,000 less than anything we'd seen).
What sealed the deal for Colter: a banana tree in the backyard with almost-ripe fruit on it that the seller told us makes great smoothies.

We are one happy family.

Third time is not the charm

Have I mentioned we're looking for a house? I hear you groaning. To update you, we submitted our third offer on a house earlier this week and it looks like this one isn't going to lead to a signed contract, either. I'm becoming a bit paranoid and gun shy, so I asked our wonderful realtor if this is typical here (we've purchased two other homes, but in another state). She wrote:

I think you have had some unusually bad luck because I definitely know it's not that you are ... being difficult to please. I think all of your offers have been very reasonable and you've been flexible with the sellers' needs. Odds would say you should be packing boxes right now, but you've just had some rotten luck.

Are you superstitious? If so, what do you carry with you or have or do that you think brings you good luck?

Frustration insurance

Would anyone care to underwrite me?

I know that my situation is not tragic, especially when compared to people who have lost loved ones, homes, everything this week. And yet, I wish life would let up a little.

Instead of removing my family from harm's way, I ended up placing us there when we evacuated to Orlando.

Then, on our way back home yesterday, the air conditioning in my car died.

This afternoon, we found out that the sellers whose house we had a verbal agreement to buy decided to take it off the market. They didn't sign the papers Thursday because of the hurricane; then, they worried there'd be too much hurricane damage to fix by the closing date so they didn't sign Friday. Then, they worried all the contractors would be busy repairing hurricane-damaged homes and wouldn't be able to complete the repairs they'd decided to make before selling, so they didn't sign Saturday. Today, they told their realtor they've decided not to sell at all.

We suspect they may have planned to move to a mobile home park then reconsidered after seeing such places flattened by Charley.

If I could file insurance claims for frustration, I'd be rich from reimbursements!