My Updated List

So on the eve of my 30th birthday (enjoying my last day in my 20s, as my sister so snarkily reminded me), here's my updated list:

Done:
Bungee-Jumping
Sky Diving
Parasailing
Dog Sledding
Hot Air Ballooning
Snorkeling
Scuba Diving
White-Water Rafting
Skiing
Snow Mobiling
Water Skiing
Took a Road Trip
Drag Raced
Camping
Climbed Ayers Rock
Hiked the Inka Trail to Machu Picchu
Danced on Stage at a Bar
Seen an Opera, a Musical, a Play, and Alternative Dance Performances
Ridden a: Camel, Elephant, Dolphin, Horse, Mechanical Bull
Traveled to: Sweden, Italy, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, The Bahamas, Mexico, England, Ireland, Scotland, Peru, and Assorted States in the U.S.
Tried: Escargot, Tongue, Lime-Sorbet-Flavored Ants, Foie Gras, Ostrich, Crocodile, Kangaroo, Frog Legs, Caviar, and Truffles
Practiced Falconry
Fell in Love; Had my Heart Broken
Tried It on my Own
Graduated from College
Received Master’s Degree—Helped Publish a Start-up Magazine
Got Married
Bought a House (Times Two)
Got a Dog; Rescued a Cat
Moved to: Columbia, Missouri; Chicago, Illinois
Became a Contributing Writer for National Parenting Magazines
Became a Mother

To Do:
Travel the Rest of Europe
African Safari
Visit Egypt
Own a Horse
Ride on a Zipline
Write a Book (and get it Published)
Buy Land
Acquire Art
Do right by my Family
Live with NO Regrets
Stay True

A Retrospective

When I turned 25, I made a list of things I'd accomplished and things I wanted to do. Something about starting the latter part of my 20s filled me with a degree of angst, so writing the list helped put things in perspective and provide focus for the future. I've attached the list below for the sake of amusement (with only details that provide too much insight into my identity removed). So read on, laugh, and think of what would be on your list. In the meantime, I'm fine-tuning a revised list (also known as a Bucket List) for my pending 30th birthday. Anything anyone thinks I should add to my list? I'm open to suggestions.

Done:
Bungee-Jumping
Sky Diving
Parasailing
Dog Sledding
Hot Air Ballooning
Snorkeling
Scuba Diving
White-Water Rafting
Skiing
Snow Mobiling
Water Skiing
Took a Road Trip
Drag Raced
Camping
Climbed Ayers Rock
Danced on Stage at a Bar
Ridden a: Camel, Elephant, Dolphin, Horse
Traveled to: Sweden, Italy, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, The Bahamas, Mexico, and Assorted States in the U.S.
Tried: Escargot, Tongue, Lime-Sorbet-Flavored Ants, Foie Gras, Ostrich, Crocodile, Kangaroo, Frog Legs, Caviar, and Truffles
Fell in Love; Had my Heart Broken
Tried It on my Own
Graduated from College
Received Master’s Degree—Helped Publish a Start-up Magazine
Got Married
Bought a House
Got a Dog; Rescued a Cat
Moved States, Countries
Became a Contributing Writer for National Parenting Magazines

To Do:
Travel the Rest of Europe
African Safari
Own a Horse
Write a Book
Buy Land
Have a Family
Live with NO Regrets
Stay True

Nada much...and yet everything much

I guiltily admit that I've been away for a bit. Every time I've pulled up the screen and thought, "Geez, I should really post something..." the effort seemed too much, so I'd click elsewhere. Maybe because everything that's been going down here seems a bit mundane? Maybe because I think so many others have much, much, MUCH more interesting things about which to write? And maybe because I suck. Yep, I think it's safe to say that all three apply. Abundantly.

But I do owe a little someone this post. Because while I've always been awful at keeping a diary, this is the closest thing Peanut has to a collection of my thoughts and feelings prior to and since her birth. So this is for you, Boo.

Today, I took you in for your 18-month old appointment. I had lots of questions to pepper the doctor with, such as: Why does she yank on her hair? Why in the hell does she make herself puke every now and again? Why does she hit and throw tantrums? Why is it that she does all these things in a manor that makes me think she's doing it JUST TO PISS ME OFF?

It seems, much like your height, weight, head size, and vocabulary, you're a little more...advanced. And it seems that this also applies to your personality. Wait, that doesn't quite do it justice. P E R S O N A L I T Y. Yes, that comes closer.

"Some kids are put on this earth to sit there and look pretty," the doctor told me. "Others are here to change the world. Becca? She's most definitely here to change the world."

Okay, I get that this is probably a line regurgitated over and over again to anxious parents. But I have to admit, it made your mom feel better, kiddo. It made me hope that your strong will and excruciating ability to get my goat and challenge me in ways I never thought possible are because inside of you is an independent, brave, and unbelievably powerful person just waiting to come out.

So let's keep at it, Little One. Let's keep helping each other grow. And then let's always remember to use our power for good and not evil.

FYI, Mr. Highway Patrolman

If you should happen to see a woman in a Jeep going just a teeny bit over the speed limit on a deserted highway in the middle of BFE, and she has a screaming child in her backseat, milk spattered across the interior of the car, and she's on the verge of tears, have a frickin' heart and just give her a warning.

Or be a prick and don't and then leave said woman wondering how much she could sell her eggs for.

Where the "blahs" turn into more

It's been a bit rough around here lately. Not due to external forces, mostly, but due to internal ones.

I spent last weekend cramped into a too-small lake house with The Banker's family. We left the house only for dinner, really, and so the entire time I felt like the walls were closinginonme. There were three children and eight adults and while there was booze, even that didn't take the edge off. It was just too tight, too much, too long. And I found myself wanting to crawl out of my skin.

I fully expected this intense discomfort to pass upon our return home. But it didn't. Oddly enough, the anxiety seemed to build rather than dissipate. I'd a physical scheduled for Wednesday and in passing mentioned these symptoms to my doctor. Okay, not so much in passing. More like, "Geez, doc, what the hell is going on? Tightness of chest, insomnia, diminished appetite. WTF?!"

As it turns out, my encroaching 30th birthday has a lot to do with this. Because my hormones? They're taking a serious dive. I'd always heard that a woman's fertility drops in half at 30. Well, what they don't tell you is that this drop is caused by a serious diminishment of hormones, which leads to all the symptoms I was experiencing. The doctor assured me that my body would soon re-align itself to deal with the lower levels, however.

But come on! Like saying farewell to my 20s wasn't going to suck enough, it turns out that 30 welcomes me with an emotional roller coaster from hell. What a bitch.

A hardcore case of the blahs

I think I'm suffering from a hardcore case of the blahs. Too hot outside, and I'm always consumed by mosquitoes. Currently itching at some dozen-plus sites (and that was WITH jeans on!). Anxious kid and no Mother's Day Out until September. The terrible twos have also seemed to arrive early, which means we have our fair share of tantrums and time-outs to contend with. And I have freelance to write and no interest in either article. And my editors seemed to have dropped off the face of the planet, so I feel like I'm sending out queries into the nether. Ugh.

And The Banker and I are trying to get ourselves on a strict budget, now that the new-house spending hemorrhage has started to dwindle to droplets. In makes sense trying to reign in costs, given the whole sucky economy and all. But there's nothing quite as anxiety-ridden or mood-bumming as writing down the costs for everything. Zanax for anxious, fighting dogs: $14. Groceries, even with coupons: $124. Gas: $78. Yuck.

Both my sisters, who were in town this past weekend for The Race for the Cure, have returned to their respective homes. And I can feel their absence most heavily.

Thrown into this mix is the fact that this weekend I'm supposed to go to The Lake with The Banker's family. This family doesn't travel. Ever. So what prompted this get-together, I've no idea. But the boys will get to go golfing, leaving the wives with the screaming kids. Supposedly, there will be a trade-off and pedicures or something for the ladies. But what I REALLY want is time to myself. To work out. Read. And maybe buy my first pair of jeans in over two years. But that, I think, is not in the budget.

Fall better hurry up and get here.

It's official

This morning, as Becca grabbed a book from her bookshelf and sat down to flip through the pages, I attempted to read along to her. She leaned over, stretched out her arm, palm flat, and pressed it firmly against my face, pushing me away. Three days away from her 17 month, and she's decided that, Mom? Mom's pretty much not needed.

And the kitchen sink, too

After a whirlwind weekend to visit my dad's parents, some five days later my grandmother was promptly put into the hospital for almost a week. She'd looked so great during our visit, so strong and happy, but a variety of factors finally led her to desperately needing a break (from keeping up a house that's too large for them and for caring for my grandfather). The toll it took on my dad was crushing to see. I'm really shitty at seeing the people I love in pain. Coupled with my own fears and pain was the knowledge that I needed to step up and help. Make phone calls. Arrange for information from assisted living facilities to be sent out. Send out encouraging cards. Keep everyone in the loop. Keep the smiles and positive thoughts rolling.

Added to this was the responsibility of watching my parents' elderly dog, run errands for them while they were away, write four freelance articles, plan a small dinner party, keep atop a child who--despite a tumble down the stairs--STILL wants to go everywhere she shouldn't. I was feeling really, really overwhelmed. The oldest child, the only one in town, the mom, the daughter, the writer, the part-time worker, the house cleaner, the dog sitter, the chef, the wife. Wearing so many damn hats while trying to shoulder the emotional burden of this past week left me exhausted. And, I have to admit, a little angry. Because the selfish, crappy part of me, whimpered, "Isn't anyone going to help? Who's going to take care of ME?"

Thankfully, we're coming out the other side. My grandmother is out of the hospital and into rehab to get her strength back. My dad returns tomorrow. Two articles are, at least, roughly written. Dinner party a success. But the exhaustion and haggardness lingers. And in some ways, the battle has only begun. There will be arguments over facilities. Over cleaning out a house so cluttered from almost 30 years of life that closets are overflowing. There will be nastiness as siblings bicker.

Boy, I could use a vacation.

We interrupt this broadcast...

So I've been a bit quiet as of late, despite the abundance of topics about which to write. The trip with Becca to see my grandparents? The unpleasant weight of old age? An unexpected downturn? The somber increase in responsibility that comes with being the oldest child? How about being an unfortunate disseminator of information?

I could weigh in on all of these topics right about now, but I simply don't have the heart. Right now I'm charging into unknown territory. And right now I'm not ready to reflect about any of it in words.

A creative labor

One of the most aggravating parts of making a "living" as a writer/editor, is the relative ease friends and family treat what you do. I don't know how many times someone has cheerfully chided me to "just write that children's book already," as if to do so I would need merely to concentrate really hard and POP! out a manuscript, much like a chicken lays an egg. Viola! There it is. Such a marvel and produced so effortlessly. (Now I think if I'd shown an interest in writing a novel, than that would be a different story. That invokes images of angst-ridden time alone in some dimly lit room, writer's block hanging like an albatross about the neck, causing the gnashing of teeth and ripping of hair.) But no, writing a children's book must be so EASY. After all, every Hollywood star has managed to do it. How hard can that be?

I have trouble explaining to people that there's this small thing called inspiration, which I've been sadly lacking lately. And then there's the whole other issue of quiet, private time in which to write. I can't even go to the bathroom unassailed anymore let alone write much for myself. Between the parenting articles I spit out every month, the inane work I'm doing at my old Really Big Company (part-time brainless data entry that the other editors never get to because they're doing CREATIVE things), and the move, there's been precious little extra time.

But really, I'm making excuses. Because I have one story written and another two so well outlined that it would take little blood, sweat, or tears to bring a rough, rough draft into existence. It's the next step that has rendered me powerless.

I know enough to know that getting a book published is damn difficult. I know that self-publishing entails monetary freedom I don't have. I know that, for the most part, you have to have an agent to get published from a reputable publishing house--but to have an agent you need to be published. Catch-22, anyone? And I don't live in a publishing mecca. There are some small local publishing companies, but not many. And what few contacts I had while living in Chicago have grown so stale as to be useless. So I'm at a standstill. I've always, always wanted to publish something of my own, (and have all the writer's guides and background research to know a thing or two about the process), but knowing where to go from here has left me feeling creatively stalled.

Umm, hello again?

I know it's been awhile--almost a full month by my count. And to be honest, I've been avoiding this simply because I don't know how to encapsulate everything that's happened during this time. Do you have four hours and a drink?

Living at my parents' house for the two-and-a-half weeks before the new house was ready was stressful. Angst-ridden. Difficult. My parents have a gorgeously decorated house that doesn't exactly scream "Children and ill-behaved dogs! Come in! Play! Make yourself at home!" Because of this and because I knew we were inconveniencing my parents, I walked around on eggshells for two weeks. And can I tell you it took all of two days before one of the dogs peed on my parents' super-expensive white rug? Yeah. And it's hard when other people pipe in--as well meaning as they might be--on your marriage, parenting skills, and general lifestyle.

And then an unexpected angst came from living in my old neighborhood again. I never set out to be just like my mom, and here I am, 29 years later, a stay-at-home mom living in the EXACT. SAME. NEIGHBORHOOD. What would the 12-year-old me think of this? I think she might be disappointed.

And as I watched the neighborhood kids walk home from swim practice, something I did for 9 or 10 years myself, I was struck by the irony that even at that young of an age I didn't like my body. Oh, sweetheart, I wish I could tell myself. It really only goes downhill from there. Enjoy your taught belly for all it's worth before it turns stretch-marked and stretched out.

So those few weeks of internal and external onslaughts were tough. But we survived.

And then the movers came.

I could go on for hours about the incompetence of our movers. We used a well-known, professional moving company. They sent three men to load up our things, store them, and return our items to the new house. Sadly, these men were poorly motivated and educated. Our invoice is littered with terrible misspellings. (Did you know we have four blue tots in our house? We do! Except that's supposed to be blue totes...) While this made me incredibly sad, a number of other things made me fume with anger. Such as the process taking triple the time promised. Or the fact that EVERY SINGLE PIECE of wooden furniture was somehow scratched, dented, or otherwise marked up.

So as we struggle with the moving company, the cable guy who accidentally drilled a hole through our wall, the survey that shows our flower bed and sprinklers on our neighbor's yard, and the fence that is two weeks behind, I've kinda avoided posting. Because it looks like one major bitchfest.

But we're in the house. We're getting settled. We're establishing a new routine. Things are coming together. Artwork is being hung. And while there's still work to be done (painting! new ovens! new stovetop! selling a kidney to pay for all of this!), this place is beginning to resemble a home. Thank God.

A hard, hard farewell

As I sit and type this in my parents' kitchen, it's hard for me to encapsulate what the last two days have entailed. Yesterday, chaos consumed us as we moved, cleaned, moved, and watched warily as "professional" movers threw about our furniture. I made six trips over to my parents' house to drop things off (which cost $75 in gas--ugh).

The rain that pounded the night before gave way to a stifling humidity that left The Banker and me drenched in sweat (not to mention the movers, too, whom I could begin to differentiate by smell). We couldn't get everything out of the house by the buyers' walk-through yesterday evening. Still, the house was orderly and clean enough to pass snuff, and we returned this morning for three more trips hauling our junk.

For starters, I didn't realize we'd accumulated SO. MUCH. STUFF. Loads and loads and loads of boxes. And secondly, we weren't nearly as prepped as I thought we were. When we move into the new house, over a dozen boxes will lack labels and will hold a mish-mash of random things. And how I hate hodgepodge while I'm trying to neatly lay out a new home! But what caught me most by surprise was the heart wrenching sadness that took hold as I prepared my home for someone else. I sat on the empty floor of Becca's nursery and just balled--my sobs echoing off the hardwood floors and the naked walls.

These new people? I'm sure they're nice enough, but they're not good enough for this home. This place that we lovingly updated. This place that we filled with craziness and junk and love. I know every inch of that home, every squeak in the floorboards, every knot in the floor. And it's not mine anymore. My first home, the place I brought my daughter home from the hospital to...it's all gone now. And it still hurts enough to bring tears to my eyes. I know we couldn't stay where we were forever, but leaving hurt so damn bad. And I doubt I'll ever come to love another home as much again.

Bowled Over

There's simply too much to be accomplished and I'm running out of the necessary time and energy. Where are the promised vacation pics? Still in my camera...along with the better part of Becca's memory book. AND SHE'S ALMOST A YEAR-AND-A-HALF OLD. She'll never forgive me if I don't get going on that.

But she may also not forgive me for taking her to Mother's Day Out, where she got so thoroughly upset today that she vomited all over herself. I was putting in a few hours at the company I used to work for (what? and you're moving on THURSDAY? well, see if I didn't go in and work I would have been kicked off of Creative-On-Call, so I kinda had to, despite all the other chaos...). So I'm wracked with guilt, stress over freelance and Creative-On-Call hours, exhaustion from a family wedding this weekend, and a house that needs to be packed and cleaned. And did I mention The Banker turns 30 this weekend?

So what the hell am I doing on here?

I'll try to be back when this overwhelming chaos subsides. And if I promise pictures and fresh cookies, will you come back?

A Hasty Retreat

Was it just last week I departed for Grand Cayman? Where did the time go? And how can I adequately encompass all that that retreat entailed and meant? And do I really have time, given that I need to complete three freelance articles, pack up an entire home, get Becca to her first day of Mother's Day Out, and somehow make time to help out my old company?

Okay, so we'll give it a quick go: Private villa at the Ritz. Needless to say, a girl could get accustomed to that lifestyle. If she were made of money and $20 drinks didn't make her throat seize up. The beach was gorgeous, the digs incredibly posh, the sunsets amazing. I saw two sea turtles while scuba diving and touched sting rays and an eel while snorkeling. Loved, loved, loved it.

The company: I knew only one of the gals on this trip (an amazing friend who kindly asked me to join her. Um, THANK YOU). The other three were strangers to me--two single, one married. I think I could get along great with all of the gals, sans one, who'll we'll get to shortly.

The neighbors: Six married men in their 40s. All fathers. They spotted us on our patio (by the private plunge pool, natch), and invited us over for a drink. I hesitated, but the consensus was it was harmless fun, right? Well, it quickly became apparent that these millionaires (most of who graciously let us know their financial status), put higher stock in their investment funds than in their marriages. And that one aforementioned gal? The tall, beautiful party girl from L.A. who bedded a Coast Guard member during our stay? Well, apparently she took it upon herself to sleep with TWO of these men...unbeknownst to my friend and me, as we'd retired early in preparation for the next day's flight.

I'm disgusted by both the single party girl and the two married men. Not that these things overshadowed my incredible trip--far from it--but they did make me so very, very thankful for the family I have. Who were waiting excitedly at the airport for my return. Pictures later, but now, I have china and crystal to pack.

Grand Cayman, Here I Come

Monday morning at an obscenely early hour, while The Banker and Becca sleep, I'll sneak away to catch a flight to the Grand Cayman Island. For a week. With a gaggle of gals.

I've never taken a girl's vacation before, and, admittedly, the timing is less than ideal. But when someone dangles a FREE stay at a private residence at the Ritz Carlton, well, you'd be kinda insane to pass it up. And so I find myself in the usual Mommy Conundrum--How to go and enjoy myself without letting the guilt take over?

This trip, for all intensive purposes, is free (minus food, drink, and SHOPPING. Did I mention the SHOPPING?!?). But The Banker and I have some serious costs looming: moving expenses, new carpet for the house, fencing the yard, and all sorts of necessities to fill this larger house. But that guilt pales in comparison to abandoning my babe and very tolerant husband for five days. In the midst of packing hell.

I'm rationalizing that this will be the break I've been in desperate need of for, say, the last six months or so. And I'm hoping it will be renewing and reinvigorating enough so that I can return to pack, move, move again, and unpack all without losing my cool...too much. I'll do some scuba diving, some reading (yes, I know. So selfish. But all I want to do is READ. Uninterrupted. For more than 10 minutes at a time.), some beaching and pooling, and hopefully some delicious eating and drinking. And maybe some shopping. Maybe.

So I'll see you all again in on the 31st. Pray that The Banker, Becca, and I find this to be a good couple of days.

Grand Central Station

Three plumbers and three electricians (two trailing dried mud and spewing plaster) paraded through my house today. But it's finished--the electrical problems and the various other demands that the buyers had put forth. And so now the count is on till our closing, some 28 days. I cannot tell you how great it feels to have strange, messy men out of my house.

So while I'm still buried under one lingering bit of freelance, I can sort of see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sure, there's the packing, the moving, the shacking with the in-laws for a week, then two weeks with my parents, and then cleaning and moving into the new home...but before that is a promise of a get-away. Something I've never experienced before, something that will carry with it no small amount of guilt, but will also hold the renewing properties of warm sand, soft, lapping waves, and unexplored horizons. And I'll need all that peace to carry me through the next month.

Nightmare

The inspection lasted some three hours yesterday with the buyers and the real estate agent in tow. I had to entertain Becca, stay out of the way, but be on call to answer questions. That morning, my body finally screaming for mercy from all this stress, succumbed to a head cold and terrible sore throat.

The inspector (who was not a registered electrician), tried to trip a GFI outlet in our main-floor bathroom. In doing so, he shorted out some five lights (and the outlet). He left--without fixing the problem--and told me that by replacing the outlet the problem would be solved. The Banker returned from a golf tournament last night to one pissed-off wife. In short order, he too was angry. He replaced the outlet...and nothing.

An electrician has been here since 8:45 this morning (I barely had time to throw on a hat and jeans), and after over two hours, he can't solve the problem. He keeps asking if there's another GFI outlet somewhere in the house, but to our knowledge, there isn't one. Every light fixture and outlet in my house has been disconnected and is dangling, all the ugly wires exposed. The floor is filthy with plaster, dust, and whatever the electrician has tracked in.

My sore throat is now accompanied by the chills and sheer exhaustion. And tonight The Banker was going to take me to dinner and to see The Police for my Mother's Day gift. Neither of us feel like celebrating. This nightmare can kill our sale.

I'm trying to keep things in perspective. We're incredibly lucky and right now there's so much heartache in the world. But my own heart hurts, along with various other body parts. It's all too much. Please, Lord, help us!

Pins and needles

We accepted an offer on the house--for our full asking price!!--but we're not in the clear yet. We have to pass the appraisal and inspection hurdles, which leaves us on pins and needles. Even more nerve-wracking is the knowledge that this couple backed out on another house just a few weeks ago based on the inspection findings.

Hear that glub, glub? That's my stomach flip-flopping and my left over Cinco de Mayo meal slushing about. Come on clean inspection and appraisal equal to our selling price!!

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...