Internet Grapes

Nine Lucky Years

Today marks nine years since Geoff and I got married. I know some of you were reading way back then; our wedding reception hall was festooned with over 1,000 origami cranes, handmade by readers. (Thank you for those.) Our first dance was to Ben Folds' "The Luckiest," a song which I had written about after I first heard it. It is our song: "What was my life before you? What if we'd been born at the wrong time? Someday, when you die, I will be so lost without you that I will die, too, and that will be right." (Interesting note: if you google "Ben Folds 'The Luckiest'", that entry is on the first page of results. Huh.)

When you first fall in love with someone, it is hard to think about anything else. When your brand new relationship is moving forward - from long distance to local to sharing a home to being engaged to newlyweds - it is hard to feel too bad about your life. You feel lucky and blessed and beloved, so often. Or at least I did.

I have never regretted marrying Geoff, and I have always loved him, during these 9 years of marriage and 13 years of being a couple. But there have been days (as you have witnessed) when that love was not enough to keep me from despair and depression and sadness. Over time, even an amazing, complicated, reciprocal love relationship loses some of its power to lift up. As much as I've tried not to, and as much as I've remained grateful for what I have, I have also often taken it for granted. I have often failed to marvel at how amazing it is to be part of such a loving relationship, and I've instead grieved over a lack of career, a lack of money, a lack of stability, a lack of direction. (And make no mistake, this is a loving relationship, and I know that, possibly now more than ever. My husband loves me and stands by me and believes in me, no matter what, and these last few years have shown me that. He has not shown a moment of resentment or impatience over my job searching, my sadness, my excitement over dreams which many would call impractical, and even my occasional reluctance to follow any dreams at all.)

Today is our 9th wedding anniversary, and to celebrate I made Geoff a movie. I believe he appreciated my effort and my finished product, but I also realized, as I was making it, that putting the images and words and music together was also a gift for myself. Look at all of those smiles, and all that silliness, not to mention those two people who we created to become part of our family; look at all that time passing. I can't watch it and take my husband for granted. I can't watch it without being overwhelmed with gratitude and joy and tears. I am so, so, lucky.

I don't know what the future holds, but as long as we are still together, still loving and supporting each other, still choosing each other above all others, then I know that I have been blessed beyond measure.

Happy anniversary to my sweet Geoffrey. Here's to many, many more.

adjusting the lens

Even before we made an offer on our condo, we knew it was not our ideal home.  We wanted 3 bedrooms - one for guests, since neither of us have family in town.  We wanted 2 bathrooms, or at least two toilets.  We would have really liked air conditioning.  We would have liked a spacious tub (with jets, even!), a new sink and toilet, a bathroom floor that was tile instead of vinyl.  We would have liked pretty granite countertops, and wood cabinets, and new appliances.  We would have liked an open floor plan, where a person cooking in the kitchen could have carried on a conversation with a person sitting in the living room or dining room.  And oh, we really would have loved our own washer & dryer. 

If our home didn't realize all of our dreams, it did satisfy all of our requirements, plus some.  There was parking (and not just a designated space, but a spot in a garage).  There were two bedrooms plus an office.  There was a living room and a separate dining room.  There was storage space (we have half of the space in the basement).  There was a shared (and free) washer and dryer in the basement.  There was a small balcony on the front that appealed to our (or at least to my) romantic sensibilities.  Pets (both dogs and cats) were allowed, and there was a fenced in backyard where we could let out the dog.  We loved the hardwood floors, and found the crown molding (in a few rooms) and glass blocked window (in the entryway staircase) charming.  And we could (barely) afford it.

In the first year or two after we moved in, I painted every room (floral wood, silver sage, tuscan beige, Del Sol, magic spell, thyme green, and a gentle pink color for Katie's room that I don't remember the name of).  We fantasized that one day, when the value of the place had increased, we would refinance the place and redo the kitchen and the bathroom.  We would put new cabinets in the kitchen (the current ones, our inspector had pointed out, were never properly attached to the wall) and install a new countertop (we could not, our inspector warned us, install a granite countertop without also getting new cabinets, since the current cabinets were so weak that the countertop would likely collapse them).  We would put new tile in the bathroom, both on the wall (our inspector said that the tile, too, had never been properly laid) and on the floors.  We would refinish or replace the scratchy-bottomed tub.  Maybe we would convert the hall closet into a space for a tiny washer & dryer.  Maybe we would install French doors on the office entrance, to make a better guest space.

Fast forward to now, 3.5 years after we moved in, and the value of our home has not increased.  I took a pay cut in October, and will lose my job in March, and the idea of redoing our kitchen or bathroom seems like a ridiculous pipe dream.  Instead, we live daily with various inconveniences.  The burners on the stovetop don't adjust well.  The cabinets are still hanging onto the wall, but I regularly examine the seam between the back of one cabinet and the wall to see if it's widened (so far, it hasn't visibly grown, but often, as I'm putting heavy dishes into the cabinet, I imagine it crashing onto the floor, and wonder, in a semi-detached way, whether the fall would happen slowly enough to give me time to move out of the way fast enough).  The oven doesn't heat to the right temperature (we adjust for it), and long ago the handle ripped off of the refrigerator door (we just pull on the side of the door).  Almost every time I load and unload dishes into the dishwasher, the wheels on the rack of the dishwasher fall off (they snap back on).  There is one tile on the bathroom wall, above the faucet, that routinely falls off the wall and into the tub.  ("Mommy!  Daddy!  The wall fell off again!" Katie will call out to us.  We push it back into place.)  And last week, the gutters (and the part of the house attached to them) fell off of one side of our building.  (Insurance will cover it as storm damage, a result of all the snow and ice this winter, but there's a deductible.) 

Then there is our clutter and mess.  I can sweep the kitchen and dining room at 8 am on Monday only to have clumps of dog and cat hair floating around by 8 pm Monday night.  There are four of us living here now, and each room is jam-packed with stuff.  Right now, in addition to all of our usual furniture, our home contains a Jumperoo, a high chair, and a baby swing, not to mention a Christmas tree that we still haven't taken down (the ornaments are off, at least; soon the tree must follow).  Annabel's crib is in our bedroom, and Katie's room has a bunk bed and shelf and desk set-up that leaves almost no room to turn around in.  There is a cheap Ikea futon in the office for guests that is a complete pain in the neck to flatten and fold up again.  The laundry and the dishes and the sweeping are overwhelming and never ending. 

And then there are the people living in the home.  Katie is almost five years old, a wild tornado, leaving destruction in her wake.  (We do make her help clean up, most of the time, but there is still plenty left for us, too.)  Annabel has not slept through a single night in her life; I feel like a miracle has taken place if she only wakes me up once.  She's on the verge of crawling, and we find ourselves scouring the living room rug multiple times a day to clear away anything that she could stick into her mouth and choke on (where does it all come from?).  I have been living with a job that has left me feeling by turns exhausted, angry, hopeless, and trapped (sometimes all at once), and now I am free of the trap (we're all laid off effective March 9th; that is a story that still needs to be told), but anxious about the future.  (My insurance covers all four of us.  My salary is more than 2/3 of our income.  My 401k is the only retirement plan we have, not that it has much value at this point.)  Geoff stays home with the girls, trying to juggle housework and dinner preparation and Annabel's naps and Katie's preschool with his own job at the church. 

Tuesday night Annabel woke up to nurse when I went to bed, then again a few hours later.  Within 10 minutes after I laid her back down in her crib, Katie appeared at the door, telling me she'd peed the bed.  I cleaned her and her bed up, tucked her back in, and found I couldn't go to sleep until almost an hour had passed.  I had just fallen back asleep when Katie appeared at the door again, telling me she'd had a nightmare that was too "horrible" to even talk about.  I took her back to her room, tucked her back in, rubbed her back and sang her "Edelweiss," and went back to bed myself.  Within 15 minutes, Annabel was awake again.  After I put her back to bed, we all slept for another 3 hours.  It was a rough night, admittedly much worse than most. 

It can get disheartening, sometimes.  Some days it seems like we will always worry about space and money and potty training and sleeping through the night.  Some days it seems like every step forward is followed by at least one equal step back. Some days I realize that I am looking at the days as part of a long struggle that I feel like I should have conquered by now.  I have been a lawyer for over 10 years now.  I will be 40 next year.  I feel, sometimes, like I should be doing better than this. 

And yet last night, as I stirred a batch of chocolate pudding on the stove (you have to stir the pudding constantly, which leaves room for deep thinking), listening to music on the CD player in the kitchen, and hearing the sounds of Katie and Annabel in the bath (and the occasional murmurs of Geoff, with them), I realized the likelihood that one day, this will be a time I look back on with great nostalgia.  One day, we may wax fondly about the stupid wheels that fall off of that dishwasher rack, and almost certainly we will laugh about that bathroom tile falling into the bathtub, because as frustrating as those things may be to us now, they are minor inconveniences in the middle of what is, in so many other ways, a wondrous blessed time in our lives - a time when Annabel and Katie are learning to be friends, when Katie's imagination is taking off in ways that amuse and impress us every day (in the past few weeks she has introduced us to at least five alter-egos/imaginary friends: Lunda, Lund, Blenda, Lenda, and Frank), when Annabel's babbling starts to sound like a language (ticka ticka dada blauuuuu), when the four of us are learning to be a family.  I come home from work, and Annabel kicks and yells happily, open-mouthed, to see me.  Katie yells, "Mommy!" and runs to give me a hug.  I know that as much as I am looking forward to seeing them grow up, I will miss them the way they are now.   

It occurred to me, as I stirred the pudding, that maybe one day I would even miss the way that I can so easily satisfy so many of my girls' needs.  When Katie wakes up in the night after a bad dream or after having wet the bed, I can help her.  When Annabel wakes up in the night hungry or upset, I am able to give her what she needs.  For each of them, I am able to be her comfort, able to solve her problem, able to put things right again so that she can go back to sleep.  How much more complicated will their problems be when they are older?  Will I wish for problems like today's (despite the sleep deprivation they cause)?

I do believe that the not-so-good things will get better.  I do believe that one day our finances will be in order, that both Geoff and I will be bringing in regular salaries, that eventually our student loans will be paid off.  I believe that one day we will have 2 bathrooms (or at least an extra toilet!), and that no tiles will be falling off of our bathroom walls.  I believe that someday we will have a guest bedroom, and our own washer & dryer. 

And so I am resolving to try to experience these days through a filter, imagining how I will feel when I look back on them from a future existence, thinking kindly of them the way I expect I will when I am no longer living them.  It is not so much a matter of pretending that I like the things that currently bother me; it's a matter, I think, of adjusting the lens through which I view those things.  In the whole picture, they can be small.  They can be background.  They can be out of focus.  (They can be bokeh.)  

I spend too much energy worrying about what we don't have, wishing for some ideal situation that I can almost guarantee I will never have.  It's silly, this waiting around for the ideal to become real, when I have so much to appreciate right now.  My husband is my favorite person in the whole world, and I would not want either of my daughters to be anybody other than who they are. We are all healthy and strong and full of love for each other.  Our condo is cozy and bright, and it's home.

How much better would it be if I am able to recognize the good in what I've got now, while I've got it, instead of only looking back later and missing it when it's gone?  How much happier will I be?

Let's try to find out.

Sunshine

Lately we've been listening to Elizabeth Mitchell's CD, "You Are My Sunshine."  My favorite song on the CD is the first one, "So Glad I'm Here," which makes me feel better every time I hear it.  But of course it also has "You Are My Sunshine," as well as a bunch of other kids'-songs-that-aren't-really-kids'-songs, like "Here Comes My Baby," "Goin Down the Road," and "Goodnight Irene."  It's the first kids' CD we've had that I really love all on its own. 

This is only relevant because Katie is learning the songs, too.  Although her favorite is "alphabet dub" (which consists of the alphabet song repeated, over and over - and over...and over), she really likes "So Glad I'm Here," and "Car Car." 

Geoff and Katie came to pick me up at the el station today.  The CD was playing. 

As I came around the front of the car, I could see Katie, mouthing "Mommy!" and wearing a huge smile.  I got in the car, smiled at Geoff, smiled at her, and Geoff started to drive us home. 

As we drove, I reached one hand back to Katie.  She grabbed my hand, leaned over it, and pressed it to her cheek while she rocked back and forth.  It was a sweet, unexpected gesture, one of those moments that you never want to forget.  It brought tears to my eyes. 

And then two seconds later, something even better.  She smiled at me.  "Mommy, you are my sunshine," she said. 

That, combined with the most excellent, incredibly delicious Tuscan bread soup that Geoff made for dinner (which I ate while wearing only my soft comfy Mother's Day robe), has turned this long discouraging day around.  Score one more for simple pleasures.

Geometry (November 8th)

Geometry (November 8th)
Originally uploaded by jessamynnorth.

I have been trying to look at this photograph in a sort of abstract, detached way, as if it's not a photo of me in my bathroom. As if, in the photo, I'm not standing there with what could be called a goofy somewhat self-conscious smile on my face, with wet hair, with what I can't help but see as chubby forearms and an awkward grip on the camera.

I've been trying, instead, to look at it in a couple of different ways. I've been focusing on the shapes, which I think is one reason I like the picture. I like the rectangular mirror with the rectangular shelves (big rectangle on the outside, smaller rectangles on the inside) reflected in it. I like the square tiles below the rectangular mirror, the corner of the rectangular door reflected in the left side of the mirror, the rectangular camera reflected in the rectangular mirror. The rectangles make me appreciate the softer shapes, too. The edge of a hand towel on the left, hanging from a silver ring. A little bit of the circular capiz shells attached to the candle sconce in the upper right.

And me, of course. I have almost no sharp angles.

I'm not sure why I feel a sudden surge of emotion when I write that, but I think it has something to do with how much this lack of sharp angles (inner, outer) might say about me. I am not hard edges. I am not sharp angles.

It's not just me, though, is it? We humans, we are all pretty non-geometrical. We are all pretty soft. We are pretty resilient, in so many ways, but still. You know. Handle with care.

Oh, and I said I was trying to look at in a couple of different ways, didn't I? I am trying, also, to see it as I might see it twenty years from now. As a record of who I was then (who I am now). I am almost never nearly as critical of my past selves as I am of my present one.

couple (October 22nd)

couple (October 22nd)
Originally uploaded by jessamynnorth.

I don't remember the last time I carved a pumpkin, but it's been years ago.  These are "Daddy" and "Mommy" pumpkins Katie picked out for us at the pumpkin patch last weekend; we carved them tonight at the Halloween party at the church.  Geoff's pumpkin is on the left, and mine is on the right.  One thing I like about pumpkin carving - almost any effort (with or without artistic talent) gives a pleasing result. 

The pumpkins are in the living room now, with their tea light candles burning inside them.  Katie is in bed, and Geoff is out tonight.  I'm here by myself, watching the pumpkins flicker and listening to Christmas music for the first time this year (the new Sarah McLachlan CD).  It's only October 22nd; this might be a record as far as early listening to Christmas music. 

I feel pretty good.  In the remaining months of the year, I am looking forward to seeing friends, and family, and more friends.  I am looking forward to Halloween, and Thanksgiving, and Christmas.   I feel hopeful, and nostalgic, and tired, and loved. 

And tonight I feel like no matter what, everything is going to be ok.   

More

Here is what's been going on.

Katie is doing great.  She gives us hugs and kisses, both spontaneously and on demand.  She has just started being interested in having a blanket over her while she sleeps, which seems like some sort of milestone to me, since she never wanted one before (we put her in footed sleepers during all cold weather, to make sure her feet stay warm).  I have big plans to buy her a small pillow, too.  She talks more clearly, and with a larger vocabulary, all the time.  Just a day or two ago, she progressed from saying "help! help!" to "help me! help me!"  Geoff and I both notice and comment on these little changes - these little bits of evidence that she is growing and learning all the time.  She loves books, and gets very excited to see letters.  So far she doesn't accurately identify many letters, but I've seen her correctly pick out and name a "K" and an "X," and maybe an "A."  When she counts, it usually goes - 1, 3, 8, 9, 18!

When I was pregnant, and when Katie was an infant, we read a lot of books about the stages she was (or would be) going through, but for the last year or more, we haven't done much of that.  The other day I was looking through our books - only one of them talks about child development past the first year.  The introduction to the 24 month plus stage said that for the most part, a child's two-year-old personality and social style is the same personality and social style that the child will have when she is six (and to some extent, when she is an adult).  I thought that was amazing (already?!) and gratifying (she is so fun to be with and be around!), and also a little bittersweet (already?!).   

Work continues to be something that I do because it is what I do, not because I love it.  I got a good review this year, and a (relatively) generous raise.  For the most part, I like the people I work with - my supervisors, in particular, are fair and kind and consistent, and can be trusted not to fly off the handle or take out their difficulties on anybody else.  It's not an arduous job.  I work from home one day a week (usually Wednesdays - yay, tomorrow!), and I get one "flex day" off each month (after working the extra hours during the previous week, a little extra time each day) - the next one just so happens to be this Friday.  I am in my fifth year of employment, which means I now get three weeks of vacation instead of two.  As of 2006, I am enrolled in both long and short term disability, so if we were to have another baby, I would actually receive 2/3 of my salary while I was on maternity leave (unlike when Katie was born and I took unpaid leave).  Ever since I started here, I've had my own office with a door that closes, and last fall I moved into an office with a window.  I am doing a good job here.  They like me. 

I was talking to Geoff a few minutes ago - he is up at the church today, composing music, Katie-less on a week day for the first time in awhile.  Per university rules, he needs to finish his doctorate either by this fall or, at the latest, by fall of 2007.  In order to give Geoff more time to do the work he needs to do, his dad generously offered to pay for some daycare/babysitting for Katie a few days a week.  Today is Katie's first day with the sitter - a woman named Jennifer who goes to Geoff's church.  She is about our age, with two young sons of her own (the older one about 4, the younger one about 13 months), and Geoff reported that when he took Katie to Jennifer's house today, Katie rang the bell several times, and walked right in when Jennifer opened the door.  The older boy asked if he could help Katie take her shoes and socks off, then handed her a sword and said, "Let's fight." I think Katie will be better off for spending 5 or 6 hours there a couple of days a week.   

But I was talking to Geoff, and I asked him if he was having fun.  "Yes," he said.  "Are you?"

"No," I told him.  "You know I almost never have fun at this job." 

We have a long-term plan to leave Chicago - not this year, and probably not the next.  But maybe the year after that.  We'd like to move to Indianapolis, where we can drive to visit my family and some of our oldest friends more easily - we can drive over for dinner, or for a Saturday afternoon, instead of having each visit be a weekend trip.  Since Geoff only gets three Sundays off a year, weekends are precious - usually if I go somewhere on the weekend, Katie and I go without him. 

But Indianapolis is closer to people we'd like to be closer to, and it's also a less expensive place to live.  Sometimes we look on realtor.com at houses for sale in Indianapolis, and then we report to each other.  For less than the price of our (two bedroom one bath) condo, one of us will tell the other, we could buy this five bedroom, 2.5 bath house with a basement, yard, front porch, back deck.  We sigh longingly. 

Geoff has only been the music director at his church for a little over a year now, and we only bought our condo last May, so we aren't going to move yet, but still, Geoff has been keeping an eye on the church musician job listings.  A little while ago he found a posting for full-time music director at a church in Indianapolis with a salary range starting just barely below my current salary.  He is probably barely qualified for it right now, but in a few years, with a little more experience, it's something he would have a good shot at getting.  And this is the thing - I have always thought that if we moved to Indy, that I would probably use my contacts here to try to find a similar job in the area, but if Geoff got a job like that, then I wouldn't have to.  If Geoff got a job like that, I could stay home with Katie and try to start a photography business, or do free lance writing, OR WHATEVER.  I could do whatever I wanted.

You would think this idea would make me happy, and it did.  But it also made me pretty scared.  That would be it, I think.  That would be my chance.  No more excuses.  I had to admit to myself that there is safety in this job that doesn't make me happy, where I don't have fun. 

Today it is sunny out, and it is already afternoon.  It is quiet here today, and I will spend the afternoon tidying up loose ends on my To Do list, listening to music and drinking water and diet Coke.  At the end of the day today Geoff will pick me up in our falling-apart car, and Katie will grin hugely and say, "Ma! Ma!" when I get in the car, and Molly will wag her whole body at me.  We will drive home together, and we will go inside.  We will have dinner, and I will give Katie her bath, and she will get me soaking wet with all of her splashing.  Maybe I will get out the camera and take pictures of her, trying to capture all of her utter joy on "film" and in my own memory.  Later, we'll get Katie in her pajamas, watch a little bit of tv, then take her to her bedroom to read books (Moo Baa La La La is a current favorite).  We'll turn out the light, sing "Edelweiss," hug her and kiss her good night, and put her in her crib.  As we're leaving the room, she'll say "Night night, Mama.  Night night, Dada."  We'll leave the room, and Geoff will go to his meeting at the church, and I will relax. I will go to bed relatively early, and Geoff will tuck me in.  I'll ask him to set up the coffeemaker so that I will have coffee in the morning when I wake up, and tomorrow I will wake up when I hear my daughter talking and singing to herself in her room.  And I will get to spend all day at home with them, interspersing hugs and songs and dancing with working on claims, watching the sunlight beam in through the windows, watching the dust motes spiral in the air, feeling the warmth that is home. 

Sometimes it feels so greedy to want more. 

So tired. Writing boring.

So, so tired.  Up painting at the old apartment until 1:45 in the morning, not in bed asleep until about 2:45.  Awake at 6:45, dozed until 7:30, not in the office until almost 9:30.  Shoulder sore from painting, but painting started on Saturday (full room painting in living room and small bedroom, touch up painting in dining room, big bedroom, hallway, and entryway) now done. 

No pictures, because no internet at home, and keep forgetting to bring USB cable to work to upload pictures here.  Behind at work, anyway, so probably just as well. 

Katie good, but experiencing a resurgence in her love of Baby Bach, so watching it approximately 5-8 times each day.  Maybe a good thing, because Geoff was writing exam for past week (so could not help paint or clean old apartment).  Geoff now done with first doctoral exam (take home) as of 9:30 or so this morning, so today will go over to clean at old apartment.  Today last day "in" old apartment.

So, so tired.  Writing boring.  Sleepy.  Busy.  Achy.  More later. 

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu!

  Give it back! 
  Originally uploaded by jessamynnorth.

The movers come tomorrow.  Today is our last day in our apartment. We moved in as a single couple with a dog and two cats, having been together for almost five years, but only having been married for about four months.  We leave as a family, parents and a child and pets.  As I look back, I realize that this has been The Apartment of Katie.   

About two months after we moved into this apartment, we started "trying," and within another two months, I was pregnant.  We were in this bathroom when I saw the positive line on the first pregnancy test, and the second, and the third, and the fourth.  This is the apartment where I ate Filet O'Fishes for days because they were the only thing that sounded good.   I painted the living room walls yellow when I was in my first trimester, and I remember one moment, while I was painting, that I realized that these will be the walls where my baby first lives, and I started to cry.  This is the place where I had to go throw up in the back yard when Geoff's Dad and his girlfriend were visiting during the beginning of my second trimester, because somebody else was in the bathroom.  It was in the small bedroom at this apartment where I was sleeping when I woke up at 2:30 in the morning and felt a sensation like bubbles popping in my belly, and I realized I was feeling the baby move for the first time.  It was here where we used to go out into the backyard and sit in the warm twilight evenings.  Geoff would cook dinner on the grill and we'd eat dinner with our friends and neighbors, Heather and Arek (who we'll miss probably more than we can anticipate) and then end up talking until well past dark, padding inside for sweaters or more drinks or to go to the bathroom.  It was here that my water broke (all over the couch, which partially coincidentally we are leaving behind as junk), and from this apartment that we drove to the hospital.  It was here where we returned a couple of days after Katie was born, and this is where my Dad, then my Mom, then Laurie came to help take care of us during the first few weeks of her life.  This is where Candace and Erin used to stop by on their way home from work when Katie was just tiny - we would hold her, and she would stare at our black Lack Ikea shelves on the living room wall.  I used to lie on the couch in this living room to nurse her, sometimes for what felt like forever, while I was on maternity leave.  This home is the place where Katie learned to smile and babble and sit up and roll over and crawl and stand up and walk and run.  This is where she said her first word.  This is where she learned to climb up onto the couch and chair (by stepping on Geoff's guitar case, usually). 

A few days after we came home from the hospital, Geoff and I were reading a baby care book that mentioned that newborns were neither loving nor lovable.  (You might remember - I wrote about it in my journal.)  The other day, as Katie was laughing and goofing around and climbing all over us and hugging us, Geoff said, "Oh, Katie.  You are loving and lovable."

This apartment didn't create a brand new person, of course.  But it has been here that a brand new person, one who I happen to love more than anything in the world, was created.  We may have another child somewhere else, maybe even in the first home that we own, that we are about to move into.  But this is where we lived when we had our very first child.  When we remember how it was when we started to learn about how to be parents, and where we started to get to know Katie, our memories will always be here.  And because of that, my memories of this place will always sparkle with a little bit of magic. 

Homeowners

  Mother & Child 
  Originally uploaded by jessamynnorth.

 The final walk through was fine, the closing was uneventful (except for the fact that we had to wait almost an hour for the checks to be printed, which meant that the three young children at the closing - Katie plus the seller's two - all managed to injure themselves and cry during the delay), and we left the closing with keys to our brand new home. 

Since then, we found out that our monthly payment is going to be a few hundred dollars more than we'd anticipated, because the money held back for our property tax escrow is going to be about twice what we anticipated, but we've decided that we aren't going to focus on that right now.

Yesterday, we bought paint for the living room, dining room, and Katie's room, and we bought primer for our bedroom, the kitchen, and bathroom.   Later today we are going over to do some painting.

We won't move into our new place until the first weekend in June.  But even now, as I type this, we are homeowners. Right now that's a pretty good feeling.

(Photo taken at our final walk through, in what is now our new home (although we don't live there yet). The flowers are from our realtor.

Taken by Aunt Stephanie.)

Is it okay if I cry now?

So, this is one of those times when I know I should be really excited and happy, but what I actually am is nervous and sick-feeling.  We close on our new home today.  It's not true that we are buying our first house, since it's not a house, it's a condo, and it's also not true that we are going to be moving to our first home, since the apartments that we've lived in have definitely qualified as homes, but it is true that this place will be the first home that we own.  Which I should be excited about. 

I'm not really excited, but I feel like I should be, so not only do I feel kind of sick for no intellectual reason (at this point, all of the loan issues have been resolved, at least as far as we know, and this morning, less than 8 hours before the closing, our attorney actually deigned to let us know how much we needed to get a certified check for to bring to the closing, so once Geoff gets the check, there's nothing left to be resolved, as far as we know - but I guess maybe that's part of my problem, because "as far as we know" doesn't mean very much, if the last few months have been any indication), but I also feel an additional layer of guilt/sadness/anxiety about the fact that I am not excited.  Good lord.

It has been pretty awful, this particular loan approval process.  The search for a home was kind of stressful, but it was at least somewhat within our control.  The loan issues that have come up have always been about us, but have almost never been within our control.  Our credit is either good enough or it's not.  Our income is either enough, or too much, or just right.  Our gift of funds from Geoff's sister Stephanie is either in our accounts, or isn't but will be, or isn't and won't.

The loan company either trusts us to be able to make our monthly mortgage payments, or it doesn't. The people making these decisions don't know us, and yet their decision about whether or not to trust us to be able to handle the responsibility of a mortgage feels so personal.  Are we good enough?  Or aren't we?

I have surprised myself by how emotional I've gotten over what's been going on the past few months.  I've tried to downplay the effect this should have on my emotions.  What is wrong with me? I'll think.  In the worst case scenario, if this all falls through, we are no worse off than we were before we started looking (except for recently, when we had already started packing and we were going to have to unpack).  This is a happy thing.  Why is this so hard?

I know THEY say that moving is one of the most stressful life experiences that people go through, up there with divorce and weddings and job changes and deaths in the family and having babies.  But still, I'm aware that a lot of people (including us, even now, if we hadn't gotten help from Geoff's sister) can't afford to buy homes at all.  I should be grateful, not tearful. 

As I'm writing this, I actually feel like I might start crying, and I suddenly think of my wedding day and mine and Geoff's first dance, and the way that, just a short hour or so after the wedding ceremony, I felt so overwhelmed that I looked at him and asked if he would mind it very much if I cried.  "Is it okay if I cry now?"  I was worried that if I cried, he might take it the wrong way.  He might think I was sad or angry.  He might think that I wasn't excited and happy. 

Instead, he looked at me and smiled, his heart in his eyes, and said, "Of course," and I laid my head on his shoulder and I cried, as much as I wanted to, and I knew that it was all going to be all right.

Geoff's getting our certified check this morning.  I'm leaving work at noon.  Our final walk through is today at 2.  Our closing is at 4.  And after that, if it's all gone well, I think that I will cry.  Is that ok?