riding a bike on a frozen lake

On a whim Leif and I have decided to move*.  Not anywhere far but to a new part of the city and somewhere we've never explored before.  In the hills with a beautiful view and terraced patios.  I'm excited.  New rooms to decorate.  More furniture to buy at flea markets and refurbish.

A new house to make into a home.

But...

And isn't there always a "but?"

Part of me feels like I am leaving behind a piece of George here in this apartment.  It was here that housed all of the hopes we had for him while he was still alive and healthy.  Grief has all but choked out that hope but I can still catch glimpses of them from time to time.  Sometimes I can still remember what it was like to think of him with only joy and not the longing with which I think of him now.  He was alive here.  At one point he was in the present here.  In our new place he will always be in the past.

On so many levels and because of so many things going on in our lives right now I feel like I am closing a door on him.   I know, I know, I know people -including my therapist- will say that it isn't true.  But isn't it true just a little?  When tragedy strikes isn't there a point when we make a conscience decision to start living our lives again?  When we decide to keep moving forward and to start folding dreams of the future back into daily living?

I think Leif has been at that point for awhile now, patiently waiting for me to turn my gaze back to the road ahead instead of the chaos behind.

....

*I wrote this long explanation about how our landlord reacted very poorly to this news last night.  But then I deleted it all.  Let me just say that she was very, very unhappy that we were giving our thirty days notice even though we are within our rights to do so.  The conversation was not pretty and at one point getting an attorney was mentioned on her part.  Later that night she called and conceded to the fact that we were legally within our rights to give our thirty day notice at any point during the month but it doesn't negate how terribly we were treated earlier.  Seriously, folks, it was unreal.  I've never been spoken to like that before and I've dealt with some really tough patients before.  The interaction just made me feel more ready to get the fuck out of here.  Hopefully our new landlord is a reasonable human being who treats other people in her life with respect.  

Please keep your fingers crossed that our landlord does not try to make our remainder here any more uncomfortable than it already is going to be.  I can't wait until these are the views we will be seeing every day.

.not myself.

At one of our first visits to the OB after I became pregnant I found something in one of their numerous baby magazines that made me really uncomfortable.  Mommy calling cards. 

Janie Jones.
Mommy to Carolyn and John.
123-456-7890
myemail@here.com

This concept struck me as terrible for a couple of reasons.  The first was that it made me think of parenthood and socializing with children as nothing more than a business transaction.  A trading of commodities and services.  Incredibly impersonal, although very practical.  Whatever happened to just chatting with someone and writing down their contact information?  I don't know maybe I am missing the point of them entirely and this is something I have to have children to understand.

But the thing about them that really made me feel uncomfortable was that they seemed to imply, to my narrow mind at least, that Janie Jones' entire identity was wrapped up in being Carolyn's and Jack's mom.  I don't like that concept.  It was something I struggled with even before Leif and I decided to start our family.  I never want to be solely appreciated for one, albeit huge and amazing, part of my life.  I am not just a mother (or a mother at all but I guess that is a debate for another time), or just a wife, or just a daughter...sister...PA...artist...scientist...friend.  I'm all of those things (but I'm thinking that they probably all wouldn't fit on a business card).  Although being a mother is certainly something to be proud of and worthy of praise I have never wanted to be defined solely on the basis of my motherhood or lack thereof.

For the most part I started writing this blog to make sure that Leif's parents felt part of this pregnancy, seeing as George was going to be their first grandchild and they were on another continent.  But I didn't want this space to become one pregnancy/baby post after another.  A baby blog, or whatever you want to call it, didn't seem to fit for me for reasons I've partially explained above.  I liked to read them and I appreciated the people who authored them but I didn't want one of my own.

But, looking around this space I've come to the conclusion that a baby blog is pretty much exactly what this has become.  Only it is the antithesis of what most baby blogs are about.  There are no posts about nursery decor (anymore) or posts about what funny things the baby is doing.  No cute photographs of toothless grins or red screaming faces.  Nope, there are just sad and depressing posts about my dead son and how badly I want him back. 

My father told me while I was in the hospital trying to get George's heart rate down that I shouldn't let this terrible, horrible event define the rest of my life.  I shouldn't let it define the entirety of who I am.

He's right.  I shouldn't.  But it has and it is and I don't know how to stop it from happening.

Three and a half months ago I ran away and I have no idea where to start looking in order to find myself again.

Which makes me question what it is I am doing with this blog or if it should even be here at all.

.riding on the metro.

I took the car in today to get serviced and to have a "funny" noise checked out, which I figured would be pretty quick.  Apparently I was part of some big psychic wave of people who decided that today would also be an ideal time to take their car to get serviced.  They said it would take all day and that I could pick it up by five.  But I had to be home by two because the pest control guy was coming to spray for ants (Every flipping summer we get ants.  I guess it is because they need water.  Asshole ants ).  Even if I didn't have to be back by two, if you have ever tried to drive from the west side of LA to the east side of LA on a holiday weekend during rush hour, you know I am only half joking when I say that I would rather gnaw off my own arm. And not even my left one but my right arm, the one I use to stuff baked cheese poofs in my mouth.

Oh yeah, and I also need to study.  There is that too.  I am on a schedule, dammit. 

I was fourteen miles away from my house, which might as well be 14 light years thanks to the way this city is laid out.  So I call Leif and ask him if he can come please pick me up during lunch.  He can't take a lunch break and he thinks because of the holiday weekend that traffic is going to be crap, which means it would take him an hour and a half round trip.  He is right of course, but I pout anyway.  So my options are to take the bus or wait until our car is ready and brave rush hour traffic traveling east on the 10 freeway.

It takes me two and a half hours to get home by bus. 

I try to use this time to be productive and read my review book but I can't because I am either a) getting car sick or b) listening to the gentleman sitting next to me talk about all the summer movies he wants to see.  Talking to this dude about all of his most anticipated summer blockbusters is the best part of the ride home.  He is a likable sort of person.  I think his name is Manuel.  He really, really likes the trailer for some movie about spy cats and dogs and is really, really excited to see a movie called The Expendables.

Of course, while I am walking the three blocks to my house from the last bus stop I realize that I do not have my keys.  Because they are with the car...14 miles in the opposite direction.  But, I think, it should not be a problem since my landlord must be home for the pest control dude too.  I get home, knock on her door.  No answer.

So, I call Leif at work.  

He shows up about twenty minutes later and as soon as he opens the gate our landlord pops her head out.  She was home the whole time. 

The pest control guy comes and says to me that he can't spray inside because I needed to clear out all my cupboards in the kitchen.  Oh.  That.  I didn't do that.  Oh well, he will be back next month and he sprayed outside so it shouldn't be a problem.

At least I don't have to walk the mile to the nearest coffee shop because I can't be in the house for three hours after he sprays inside.  That is a plus.

The next great drummer and his friends are home.  That is a negative.

At 3:00 the mechanic calls.  The car is ready early.  They couldn't get the car to make the funny noise when the engine turns on but they did take a look.  They suggest trying to record the funny noise next time. Oh yeah, and they did change the oil.  That will be 123 dollars please.

If there were rocks over here, I would totally be kicking them right now.

.an open letter to the next great drummer.

Dear Neighbor-Person Learning How to Play the Drums,

It is great that you have found an activity that you so obviously enjoying doing.  I can say that with confidence even though we have never met because for the last two weeks I have heard you banging...I mean, jamming, every day from the hours of 2:00pm to 6:00pm.  If you are really having a good time then you will keep going until closer to 7:00pm.  I can tell you must be getting really good because you play the same riffs over and over and over again so I know you are getting lots of practice.

At first I thought you were playing outside, because how else could you be coming in so loud and clear in my living room? But now I think you are playing inside and that you leave your doors and windows wide open so you can share your love of percussion with the neighborhood.  This is very thoughtful of you.  If you didn't make me listen to your...umm...music, I would have to just sit here in silence while studying for a very, very important exam.  I think you must have gotten the idea from our other neighbor-person who likes to repeatedly play scales for hours on his clarinet nearly every day as well.  It is nice to live in a neighborhood where music is so greatly admired.

So thank you, neighbor-person who is learning to play the drums.  I really, really appreciate your passion for music.

Sincerely,

Your biggest fan.

P.S.  Just minutes ago I heard a new addition to our music-loving neighborhood.  You have a singer to go along with your drums now!!!  This is very exciting news.