Ugh, ugh, and more ugh

I can not adequately express my distaste for selling a home. We've had three open houses, several showings, and the sum result has been sheer exhaustion on my part. It's the constant cleaning. The constant hiding/putting away. The wrangling of the dogs, cat, and kid, while we open our home to a bunch of trudging strangers. The emotional toll as we hear, "Adorable home!" "So cute!" "Wish it had another bathroom/bedroom."

We live in a cute, little city, built after WWII for returning soldiers. These are not super large houses, though they can be expanded. We have three bedrooms, though admittedly one does serve better as an office. We have one-and-a-half baths. These are our limitations. But we have updated EVERYTHING, (granite! new appliances! refinished hardwoods! new carpet! new paint!), have the sweetest screened-in porch, great flow, and a large kitchen (for this neighborhood).

I'm not made for this. It's very hard for me to wrench open my door, invite strangers in to gawk, judge, and haggle. We fell in love with this house almost six years ago and made an offer within 20 minutes of seeing it. That was such a drastically different market! Now, the market is filled with, as one real estate agent put it, "a lot of bottom feeders keen on getting something for next to nothing."

Is it so much to ask that someone fall in love with this home? That someone would want to make it their starter home, to begin a new life in, to start a family in? It's been such a great home for us, and being who I am, I can't take the emotion out of this process (as I've been urged to do).

The summer months are already filling up with demands and responsibilities, and hanging like an albatross around my neck is this home that I adore. I'm beginning to feel frayed around the edges.

A $20-Grand Ouch

We got an offer on the house this week--some $20 grand below our asking price. Ugh. The Banker has looked at comps for houses in the neighborhood and our price was aggressive from the get-go. Several realtors who toured implied that they thought our price was too low. Still the interested party won't pony up even $10 grand more, which is needed to make our numbers work.

I hate to walk away from an offer. It leaves this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. But it's really too low. Still the market sucks, and I'm worried that we're looking a gift horse in the mouth. Selling a home really, really stinks. Ugh...I can feel the weight of my breakfast at the back of my throat...

In over my head

I know I've been lax about updates here, mostly because there's so much happening that I'm not quite sure what to write about. My life right now feels like one very major to-do list, from which I'm desperately trying to check things off.

Santa Fe was fun, though low-key. I spent the better part of the time running to stores and waiting for deliveries and cleaning. My parents' home is incredible, and I"m so proud of them. This is something they've clearly earned, and it's beautiful. The Banker came up for a long weekend and we ate at some great restaurants and saw some amazing (read: expensive) art. And Becca was pretty well behaved for the entire ordeal.

We actually succumbed a bit to the Santa Fe mentality...and we bought the tiniest oil painting. It was cheap by art standards but not by ours. Still, it's so lovely--a single cotton blossom in full bloom. The painter is Simon Winegar, and our piece is called Spring Manifest. I also fell head-over-heels for a Dan Ostermiller, but since we don't have an odd $5 grand lying around I will have to content myself with the hope that maybe someday...if I sell a kidney.

Still reeling from our Santa Fe expenditures, we're now in total house-selling mode. We had two showings this week and will have an open house this Sunday. Many kind comments about how darling the house is, but at only one-and-a-half baths, I know it's not for everyone. Still the sooner we sell this house, the better off we'll be, even if that means moving into my parents' house until we can move into the new home come July 1st. So please cross your fingers and say a few prayers, because we could use the perfect home buyer!

And then there's the aforementioned to-do list: a handful of freelance articles, Becca's Mother's Day Out group, four weddings (come on people!! Can't you postpone your love until after we sell our house?!?!), three birthdays, a graduation, a new baby in the family, and countless things to do around the house. Eeeek.

Overload

Let's see, in the past two days, this is what happened:
Made a bid on house
Counter offer
Counter-counter offer
Cat escapes
Cat returns
Counter-counter offer accepted. Holy shit--just bought a house. Will now own TWO houses.
Must sell current home. ASAP!
Cat falls off roof
Cat catches self on gutter, scrambles back inside
Cat cut off from any open crevice
Prepping home for open house
Clean, clean, put away, hide
Pack for Santa Fe

So, the last few days have been a WHIRLWIND. I think I'm allowed to use all caps given the circumstances. I'd like to go on and on about how stressful this has been, how The Banker can't sleep due to it all, how I'm in denial mode, how we need to sell this house SOON or we'll be responsible for two mortgages and I'll have to sell my dispensable internal organs on the black market, and how all the smug neighborhood kids I grew up with are probably having a pretty god laugh at my expense about all this. But there's simply no time. I have to get the house ready for an open house tomorrow and Becca and I packed to fly to Santa Fe at 8 a.m. The laid-back atmosphere of Santa Fe sounds pretty good right now...so more later. But until then, this is (apparently) where I'll call home, come July 1st:

Wondering...

So The Banker has fallen in love with an in-between house (since our dream of a home with land is at this point too expensive), and by all accounts it's move-in ready. The yard is non-existent, so this would be a house we settle for until we can afford more. Oh, and there's one more problem: It's catty-corner to my parents' house. Anyone want to weigh in on the insanity of this idea?

Happy Second Easter, Little Bits

The Night I Turned into THAT Lady

Tonight I became that uncool, bitchy woman I'd always shaken my head at before. And you know what? It felt kinda good.

The Banker and I were driving home after picking Becca up from my parents (Thursday nights we volunteer at a therapeutic riding ranch), when we'd just entered our little neck of the "city." It was about 8:30, the streets still busy. I was in the backseat of the Jeep, turned to entice Becca into taking the last of her final bottle. Suddenly, The Banker shouted, his hand on the horn as he swerved and simultaneously slammed on the brakes. My body, twisted to the side, jerked forward awkwardly against the seatbelt. Becca uttered a cry of absolute panic. In front of us, four boys in a tan Honda had crossed four lanes of traffic and almost side-swiped us. Obviously embarrassed, the driver quickly turned the car off the street, only to reappear minutes later and cut us off to make a quick right-hand turn.

So you know what I did? I memorized the license plate, noted the street I last saw the Honda turn on, and called the police when we got home some five minutes later. The dispatcher, a very kind-sounding woman, looked up the plates and based on where I saw the car turning, surmised the kids were returning home and said she'd call the residence.

Becca, while shaken, is now sound asleep. Me? My neck and lower back ache something fierce. And my pride is both bruised and gloating. Part of me shakes my head that I've become that lady, the straight-laced kind who doesn't get it when kids are just trying to have some "fun." But in the end, I'm a mom, and if dare endanger my child I will take you down. Those kids are damn lucky I wasn't driving, because I probably would have followed them home and given them a good screaming. (Something my own mom has done.) And if I see their car again...well, let's just leave it at that.

Needless to say, I get it--the Mama Bear or Lioness comparisons. And so if I've become that lady, I guess that's okay. Because while I remember my carefree teenage days, there's no excuse for endangering my cub.

Teenage Angst in a One-Year-Old

Time and time again, people react with surprise when my daughter throws them a look like this:



Or, if she's been scolded, this:



I know this means I'm in for a lot of trouble. Of all the one-year-olds we're familiar with, only Becca pulls this sort of thing. I catch her watching expressions, trying to catch the eye of anyone close by. She's clearly tuned in, craving interaction--so much more so than other children I know. This is a point of pride and concern. This kid is stubborn. Tough. And so much more of a handful than I ever expected.

But by the same token, with the pouts and scowls, she's also perfected the art of hugging. She will toddle up to one of the animals--or me--and squeeze sooo tight. It's enough to make my heart feel as if it could burst. It's these moments I'm holding onto when Becca fights me over every meal. Or repeatedly throws her food on the ground despite constant reprimands. Or flips over mid-diaper-change and tries to crawl off. Or tosses me one of her new, perfected, looks.

ISO: Help in Hiding Veggies, Meat

Becca is absolutely refusing vegetables. And meat. She's sort of taking after her mom: all carbs, fruit, and cheese. And even though I've written parenting articles on similar subjects, I only have one or two recipes for hiding vegetables and absolutely zero for hiding meats. And umm, I don't want to spend all day in the kitchen. (Okay, full disclosure, I also really, really don't want to have to buy Jerry Seinfeld's wife's cookbook. Ugh.)

So if you, or anyone you know, have any ideas for outsmarting a really, really finicky one-year-old, I welcome the input. Because carrot cake can't be her sole source of vegetables.

Happy Birthday, Peanut!

This Saturday marked Becca's first birthday, and I think I'm still trying to wrap my mind around this fact. There are days when it feels as if she's been here for ages, that I can't imagine a life before Becca. But most days it seems so fast, an absolute flash. On my to-do list is a year-in-review letter of sorts to the Little Miss that she can look at when she's older. But first I have to get some freelance and other matters under control. So in the meantime, here's a quick peek at Saturday's gathering and the anniversary of Peanut's arrival:

I Don't Know Why I Bother

We got Becca this adorable little chair from Pottery Barn Kids for Christmas, and I had romantic notions it would be her reading chair--that she would sit lovingly next to me and we would read together. Thus far, this is the sum total of it's use:







Where, you might ask, is the Little Miss sitting? Well, right here, of course:



Yup, that's the one of the dog's beds. I blame The Banker's lineage for this. After all, his family was known as the Clampetts at their country club, and one of his siblings has been known to wear a tank-top and flip-flops to a funeral. I'm not even kidding.

Mother's Day Out

Finally! I can breathe through my nose and my body doesn't ache like it's been hit by a truck...repeatedly. And I only occasionally cough up my lungs. There's nothing like feeling well again after feeling so, so terrible to make you appreciate your health. Thank you, God. Now please, please help us all stay healthy through Becca's birthday this coming weekend.

Some interesting things happened while I was fighting influenza. For starters, I had to get up at the crack of dawn to stand in the frigid cold and fight off other desperate parents to enroll Becca in Mother's Day Out for this fall. (Becca, in the meantime, was spending the night at my parents. Where she slept soundly through the night. OF COURSE SHE DID.)

So there I was, cold creeping into my boots, trying to make small talk with other parents without coughing crap up all over them. I was about the tenth or so person to arrive. We were all freezing, desperate to get our kids enrolled, and trading tales of parenthood. (We were nice to one another because one brilliant father had brought a pad of paper and a pen so we could sign up as we arrived. Then we were able to chat kindly, knowing we weren't going to have to elbow each other in the face for a spot in line. Did I mention this brilliant father's wife made him get there at 5 a.m.? This man deserved a medal!)

One mom and I ended up chatting even after we were let into the church building and led down a long haul to wait some more at round tables. She was older than I with a two-year-old son and a nine-month-old daughter. She asked if I was a stay-at-home mom, and when I said I was, she let slip words that cut to my very core: "You know, it was so much harder staying at home than I'd anticipated. I went through this identity crisis. I'd always worked, I always had that, and suddenly I didn't anymore. I felt like when I talked to people, I had nothing to contribute. And I found it very isolating, being stuck in the house at the mercy to constant feeding and nap schedules."

I wanted to hug this complete stranger. I wanted to scream, "AMEN, SISTER!" But I didn't. Instead, I fervently nodded. I get it all. The isolation. The crisis of identity. The feeling of worthlessness. The knowledge that the only thing I have to add to a conversation are the antics of a wee person, and most people don't care to hear me go on and on about poop, feedings, naps, and crazy kid antics. It was so affirming to hear that I'm not the only one--that this staying at home thing? It's not all cuddles and roses. It's the hardest damn thing I've ever done. And probably the most important, too.

Sick, again.

As if this past week hasn't been nasty enough, as if this weekend wasn't hard enough given my grandmother's funeral, I'm now sick with the flu. The kind of flu where you shouldn't get out of bed for three or four days. Unless, of course, you have a child. Then you're forced to be up during the day--and if you're super lucky--from 1:30 a.m. on, too.

Sanctuary!

Another blown-out diaper and projectile vomiting. I'm seriously wondering if I have what it takes to be a stay-at-home mom. Because right now, I'd prefer to be almost anyplace but here.

A sincere thank you

There are days, much like today, when a kind comment can mean the world. Whether it's an encouraging note on a blog, an e-mail just to say hello, or a kind smile for a stranger at the grocery store--these social interactions matter. So thank you. You know who you are. Your supportive comments have such uplifting capabilities. I carry them with me like little nuggets that I can nurture myself when things get hard. Like yesterday, for instance. Or today.

My mom's mom started a steep decline yesterday. My parents, still in Santa Fe, had an evening flight home. I sat by my grandmother's bedside pleading she hold on so my mom could say goodbye. Thank God my parents caught on earlier flight enabling my mom to arrive by midday. I don't think I could have sat bedside, on death watch, by myself. So I put in several hours yesterday and then gratefully, selfishly, handed over the reigns to my mom and one of her sisters.

Then I had to hold it together for The Banker's grandmother's 85th birthday brunch. On our way home, Becca got quite ill. The kind of ill where her diaper was blown, her clothes, jacket, and car seat soaked. Despite the freezing cold, we alternated cracking the windows on the drive back home. It took an immense amount of control not to vomit. Then more heart-wrenching time at the nursing home. Then on to a gala dinner and dance--a bank function The Banker had to attend.

This morning, as I was on my way to bring my mom and her sister coffee, my grandmother finally passed, marking the end to an over-5 year battle with Alzheimer's.

But there's no rest for the weary. Or those with children. Those with a weak stomach, stop reading now. I'm very serious about this. Now.

Becca's virus continued into the night and this morning, just hours after I returned from my final visit to the nursing home, it hit an all-time first. I've seen projectile vomiting, but this was so, so much worse. The Banker was changing her diaper, already leaking from another round, and he called for my help. As he was switching out a clean diaper, Becca projectile diarrhead across the room, into the hallway, and across my body. She shot some 7 feet. It was like a water cannon went off. A water cannon full of liquid poop. The Banker and I looked at each other, our jaws on the floor. (In poop.) Then, because there was nothing else to do, we laughed. Hysterically. As we cleaned the bedspread, the floor, my clothes, and Becca, we laughed. Because the tears had already been spent and all that was left was the maniacal laughter of a mad person.

Now I'm off to rekindle a much-hated talent from my journalistic past: writing an obituary for a woman who was beautiful and adventurous. Who raised a family in Venezuela. Who loved to dance and party. Who lacked maternal instincts. And who always spoke her mind.

All quiet on the blogging front

I'e been meaning to jot down a note or two here, but I've been caught up on this whirlwind that is life and I can't seem to find the time. Or energy. Or motivation. First I was sick with the bug that's been going around, which left me feeling like I'd been jumped in a dark alley or hit by a bus...or both. But as my mom not-so-sympathetically declared, "There are no sick days for moms." And boy was she right. I slept when Becca slept, went to bed as soon as I felt things were under control in the evenings, but other than that, I just had to rough it out.

Then The Banker fell ill over the weekend (if you want to see what THAT was like, see "Man Cold" on YouTube. SO ACCURATE.), so I had less than the usual amount of help around the house. (While he didn't take any "sick days" from work, The Banker did get loads of naps during the weekend. Apparently, sometimes dads do get to take sick days...sort of.)

This week has already started to get away from me--freelance dangerously piling up, book club book to be read, and yes, still hoping to get Becca's memory book started before her first birthday, which is just around the corner. And why did the dogs decide NOW was the best time to start molting and leaving clumps of fur all over my formerly clean home? Let's not even mention my gym membership that expires in a week. I'm not sure I even remember the route to take to that mystical place called "the gym."

And last night Becca screamed from 3 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. This morning, she's got the worst runny nose and keeps sneezing. So it's off to the pediatrician's, but not before I stop by the Alzheimer's unit to try and feed my grandmother some lunch because my parents are out of town. And then tonight? The Banker has a work event I must attend looking properly groomed and smiling...on three hour's sleep.

Okay...back to eating bon-bons and sitting on the couch.

Rule of Nature #74

When you finally, after two rainchecks, take your kid into that really big company where you once worked--you know the one that people from all over the country spend years and countless portfolios and tests to get into?--to have lunch with your former managing editor, your usually sweet cherub will act like that kid, the kind who force people to give you glances urging you to remember to use birth control going forward.

Putting the FAT in Fat Tuesday

I love Fat Tuesday. I mean, on no other day does the world say, "Go ahead, eat and drink and be merry like it's the last day you'll get to let loose...at least for the next 40 days." (Except if you count Thanksgiving, which has less debauchery involved. Or Easter, which is mostly chocolate and egg based.)

Tonight I've opted for extra crispy fried chicken and red bean and rice from a fast-food joint. I don't ever eat fast food and never eat fried chicken, so this will be quite the treat. A big, greasy, gut-busting treat. And after that? Well tomorrow Lent begins and with it a hardcore push to lose the final lingering pounds of baby weight. To boot, The Banker and I are cutting out alcohol Mondays through Thursdays. This will be quite the feat, because in this house wine is kinda like toilet paper--if we run out, people get panicky.

Not-so-friendly skies

This is a portion of the letter I wrote to Frontier Airlines after our total crap flights to CanCun. I never, ever bother writing companies, but the people who work for Frontier so totally screwed us that I got angry enough to write:

My husband and I arrived early for a 7:15 a.m. flight to CanCun on Saturday, January 19th. It was our first flight with our 10-month-old and we wanted ample time to get settled. But we were forced to stand at the ticket counter for almost 50 minutes because no one knew how to charge us $12 for an infant tax. Three different employees over 45 minutes couldn’t figure out how to take pocket change from us and check our baggage. By the time they phoned someone with the training required to complete this task, there were only minutes to spare before our flight. We rushed through security and were among the last to board the flight—no ability to pre-board and settle for our first flight with a baby. It was a terrible and stressful way to start our vacation.

But Frontier didn’t disappoint on the return flight, either. Departing at 3:25 on Saturday, January 26th, we arrived with plenty of time to compensate for any ticketing problems. We were first in line for pre-boarding, but right as we were to step onto the plane we were told we would have to stand and wait—the flight attendants had yet to arrive. The entirety of the plane’s passengers stood for 15 minutes, waiting outside the plane’s door. It was insinuated to my husband by one of the ground crew that the flight attendants might have been caught up “shopping” in the duty-free stores. After the flight attendants’ eventual arrival, the plane sat on the tarmac for 40 minutes waiting to take off—providing no shortage of discomfort for the passengers. (One person in our party was almost forced to urinate herself due to the extended time without bathroom access.) After all this, the plane was an hour late arriving home.

The person in our party almost forced to pee herself? Yup, that would be ME. I'd gone to the bathroom right before boarding, but since we didn't depart for an hour after we were supposed to and because I'd drank a large bottle of water in attempts to rehydrate myself, well...it wasn't pretty. While we were waiting on the runway, the pilot announced it'd be another 16 minutes until we departed. I almost burst into tears--at this point I had a 20-pound baby on my lap (on my bladder) who would scream if anyone else held her. The Banker told me I'd better make a quick jump all of three rows to the restroom. The minute I stood up, though, two flight attendants (obviously grumpy because of the crap choices in the duty-free store) screamed like banshees at me. Total humiliation. If I'd had more guts, I would have peed myself to make a point.

And I didn't even mention how the return flight ran out of booze.

Proof the romance hasn't died

Last night as The Banker and I are brushing our teeth and getting ready for bed...

Me: What did we eat for dinner that was red?
The Banker: Nothing
Me: You mean this was stuck in my teeth since lunch?! Geez, I should brush more...
The Banker: Tell me about it!