Walk of Trees, downtown Plymouth, Mi.
Showing posts with label michigan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label michigan. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Leaf Baby
She immediately went for this huge pile of leaves in the street and DOVE right in. We were in the student ghetto, and all I could think was "Please don't let there be dog poop in there...or broken glass...or used needles...or puke..." She had fun, but after about five minutes my nerves couldn't take it and I made her come out.
From our visit to Kalamazoo and the Vine St. neighborhood, Kalamazoo, MI, November 2009.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
A Walk in Kalamazoo
Some more photos from our November ramble around Kalamazoo's Vine St. Neighborhood:
I bribed her with a Rice Krispie treat from the coffee shop to get her to a) walk and b) occasionally stand still for photos.
Stripes of spray paint on a fence. Ahh, college.
She thought the pumpkins were pretty cool, though.
"His face is all smushed in. Dat's kinda gross. His face is gross."
I bribed her with a Rice Krispie treat from the coffee shop to get her to a) walk and b) occasionally stand still for photos.
Stripes of spray paint on a fence. Ahh, college.
She thought the pumpkins were pretty cool, though.
"His face is all smushed in. Dat's kinda gross. His face is gross."
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Student Ghetto Revisited
This was the neighborhood we lived in while we were in college in Kalamazoo, MI. Street after street of ramshackle Victorians, hacked up into teeny apartments, with umpteen mailboxes on the front of each one and couches on porches and cars always overflowing the driveways. It was a great neighborhood, despite the noise and general college-student dumbassery. It's still my favorite place we've ever lived.
In November, I took Piper there, to see some friends and poke around town. We spent two nights at the apartment my adorable sister shares with her adorable boyfriend. They live smack in the middle of the student ghetto, so I was more than pleased to be within walking distance of all the stuff I wanted to re-visit.
Piper and I went to the park on Davis St., and we walked past the apartment where I lived when I met Ryan. I told her about our life there, and about my life before I met her dad. I showed her all the places I'd lived on Vine Street, the mere mention of which is synonymous with student-ghetto living to Kalamazoo dwellers.
When I lived there, I couldn't imagine living the life I have now. And now? I can barely remember the person I was then.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Greenfield Village: Chickens
When we visited my family in November, I asked my dad to take me to Greenfield Village. I had never been, all those years I lived in Michigan, and my Dad loves the place. It's amazing, really. Building after building that has been carefully taken apart, shipped, and re-assmbled...on a farm...in the middle of the city. They have Thomas Edison's workshop, painstakingly restored and outfitted with all his equipment. You can even ride in a Model T, which we did, and which was way fun.
They raise animals there, including several heirloom varieties of chickens. Piper was with us, and thought the chickens were pretty cool.
She spent at least ten minutes chasing them, saying "Hey turkey come back, can I pet you?"
The chickens were not impressed.
They raise animals there, including several heirloom varieties of chickens. Piper was with us, and thought the chickens were pretty cool.
She spent at least ten minutes chasing them, saying "Hey turkey come back, can I pet you?"
The chickens were not impressed.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Isolationist Tendencies
I hadn't realized, until we were traveling in Michigan, out of our little bubble of home/park/mall play area/Ikea how much we've shielded Piper from most popular culture. It wasn't (entirely) deliberate; we only have network TV (and used to have HBO, but my $@$(@*%^*^ feelings about Time-Warner are irrelevant to the topic). We rarely actively expose her to the things that are considered "kid stuff" in American culture - no jangly just-for-kids music, no 23-minute commercials for toys cartoons on broadcast-TV. I, for the most part, can't stand that stuff, and she doesn't seem to miss it. I actively dislike almost everything Disney has put out in the last 15 years and I really disagree with the values their animated features present, so we avoid those too. I'm too dweeby to keep up with whatever the hipsters' kids are listening to this week, so we just skip it all.
She knows a few of them, of course; short of cutting ourselves off from the outside world altogether it's hard to keep them out. She knows who Strawberry Shortcake is, thanks to a box of my old toys. She loves the dancing monsters of Yo Gabba Gabba, the British dog Kipper, and her best friend is an 18-inch fully-jointed Spider-man action figure from a thrift store. All of this is stuff she figured out on her own, from watching or listening. We try to keep the rest of it away from her attention, because we feel that there's no reason for her to know the name of every single cartoon character out there (and because she can't ask for what she doesn't know about).
When we are out somewhere and she sees one of the many, many licensed-cartoon characters on some piece of plastic crap from China, sometimes she'll take particular notice, but it's only in a general way. She doesn't know the word "princess" (she calls them "costumes"), let alone the name of each and every specific Disney one. My MIL tried for a long time -and still occasionally does- to refer to Piper as "our little princess, what a princess, she's such a pretty pretty princess" and I nipped that shit in the bud. Every time my MIL said it, I got queasy with visions of frilly pinkness and incessant demands for toys.
Piper has her own names for the things she sees, and we are happy to let her keep using her imagination on them. She calls Elmo "that red monster," Barney is "big purple dinosaur" and she thinks Dora is Strawberry Shortcake (except she says "Straaabery Portcake and it's so cute I want to punch myself).
Which is why I felt uncomfortable A LOT when we were hanging out with people who would correct her words for things, would say "No, that's Dora" or "that's not just a monster, that's Elmo" in a store. If she asked "who's that?" or "what's that?" about something instead of asking her back "Who do you think it is?" or "I don't know, what IS that?" like we do, they'd say, "Oh, that's Dora and here's Diego and here's 17 other characters from some cartoon..." or "That's a princess costume, princesses wear pink sparkly dresses and tiaras and look really pretty..." I cringed a little and wondered if she'd soon be asking for every toy Nickelodeon currently licenses. My dad let her watch an hour of Wonder Pets and the very next time we walked into a store, she started pointing at the toys and asking for the toys by name.
More than that, it saddended me. When she pointed at Sponge Bob and said "Hey, look at that weird yellow monster guy!" and she got "No, that's Sponge Bob Square pants, and he lives in a pineapple, and here let me sing his theme song for you..." back from the adult she was talking to, I almost cried. I wanted to hear her thoughts on "the weird yellow monster guy." I wanted to hear what she had to say. And now it was gone, lost because someone felt the need to correct her imagination.
I know I can't keep this up forever. I am certain, when she gets to pre-school or kindergarten or playgroup or whatever, that some other little girl will give her a strict crash-course in The Ways Of All Things Princess, but for now I am pleased that she prefers the toys others have made for her and wooden blocks to tv-based toys with flashing lights and noises. She likes monsters and coloring and loves the giant bin of our old Duplo Lego pieces my mom brought down from Michigan. She likes dolls, but I don't call her "little Mommy" or assume that it's something coded into her cells because she's female. She likes to carry dolls and stuffed animals around, take all their clothes off, and give them drinks from her cups. She gives her babies a bath by holding them down in a bucket of water. I'm not ready to assume she's a nurturing soul just yet.
I am also certain that whatever little child gives her The Princess Lecture will also educate Piper about activities are "for girls" and "for boys." No matter how much we fight it at home, I'm sure what other kids think she should be doing will seem more important to her. So just as my heart fills with joy to see her playing equally with trucks, dinosaurs, dolls, and blocks, I've started to feel a sort of pre-sadness for the day when this innocence slips away. I know that one day soon I will bring out her dinosaurs and trains, and she will look at me and say scornfully, "Mom, those are for boys. I can't play with those. Now, where's my princess dress?"
She knows a few of them, of course; short of cutting ourselves off from the outside world altogether it's hard to keep them out. She knows who Strawberry Shortcake is, thanks to a box of my old toys. She loves the dancing monsters of Yo Gabba Gabba, the British dog Kipper, and her best friend is an 18-inch fully-jointed Spider-man action figure from a thrift store. All of this is stuff she figured out on her own, from watching or listening. We try to keep the rest of it away from her attention, because we feel that there's no reason for her to know the name of every single cartoon character out there (and because she can't ask for what she doesn't know about).
When we are out somewhere and she sees one of the many, many licensed-cartoon characters on some piece of plastic crap from China, sometimes she'll take particular notice, but it's only in a general way. She doesn't know the word "princess" (she calls them "costumes"), let alone the name of each and every specific Disney one. My MIL tried for a long time -and still occasionally does- to refer to Piper as "our little princess, what a princess, she's such a pretty pretty princess" and I nipped that shit in the bud. Every time my MIL said it, I got queasy with visions of frilly pinkness and incessant demands for toys.
Piper has her own names for the things she sees, and we are happy to let her keep using her imagination on them. She calls Elmo "that red monster," Barney is "big purple dinosaur" and she thinks Dora is Strawberry Shortcake (except she says "Straaabery Portcake and it's so cute I want to punch myself).
Which is why I felt uncomfortable A LOT when we were hanging out with people who would correct her words for things, would say "No, that's Dora" or "that's not just a monster, that's Elmo" in a store. If she asked "who's that?" or "what's that?" about something instead of asking her back "Who do you think it is?" or "I don't know, what IS that?" like we do, they'd say, "Oh, that's Dora and here's Diego and here's 17 other characters from some cartoon..." or "That's a princess costume, princesses wear pink sparkly dresses and tiaras and look really pretty..." I cringed a little and wondered if she'd soon be asking for every toy Nickelodeon currently licenses. My dad let her watch an hour of Wonder Pets and the very next time we walked into a store, she started pointing at the toys and asking for the toys by name.
More than that, it saddended me. When she pointed at Sponge Bob and said "Hey, look at that weird yellow monster guy!" and she got "No, that's Sponge Bob Square pants, and he lives in a pineapple, and here let me sing his theme song for you..." back from the adult she was talking to, I almost cried. I wanted to hear her thoughts on "the weird yellow monster guy." I wanted to hear what she had to say. And now it was gone, lost because someone felt the need to correct her imagination.
I know I can't keep this up forever. I am certain, when she gets to pre-school or kindergarten or playgroup or whatever, that some other little girl will give her a strict crash-course in The Ways Of All Things Princess, but for now I am pleased that she prefers the toys others have made for her and wooden blocks to tv-based toys with flashing lights and noises. She likes monsters and coloring and loves the giant bin of our old Duplo Lego pieces my mom brought down from Michigan. She likes dolls, but I don't call her "little Mommy" or assume that it's something coded into her cells because she's female. She likes to carry dolls and stuffed animals around, take all their clothes off, and give them drinks from her cups. She gives her babies a bath by holding them down in a bucket of water. I'm not ready to assume she's a nurturing soul just yet.
I am also certain that whatever little child gives her The Princess Lecture will also educate Piper about activities are "for girls" and "for boys." No matter how much we fight it at home, I'm sure what other kids think she should be doing will seem more important to her. So just as my heart fills with joy to see her playing equally with trucks, dinosaurs, dolls, and blocks, I've started to feel a sort of pre-sadness for the day when this innocence slips away. I know that one day soon I will bring out her dinosaurs and trains, and she will look at me and say scornfully, "Mom, those are for boys. I can't play with those. Now, where's my princess dress?"
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Home, home on the range - er, subdivision
I am home again, grateful for some nice time spent with my family but really, really glad to be back in our quiet little house. We actually got back really early last Tuesday morning (like 2:00 am early), but then my mom was here all week so computer time was almost impossible to come by.
Because of the trip, I did NOT meet my goal of 30 posts in 30 days for November. I did pretty well until that last week and then it all went out the window. Oh, well, I tried, right?
I am still playing catch-up, a week later. While we were gone, my very nice husband took three of our more troublesome felines and got them shots, then took them to a no-kill shelter. He then had our carpets professionally cleaned, and moved our daughter's stuff from the den (which had been her bedroom because it was the biggest room with a closet) to the two back bedrooms. So now, instead of a giant room full of her stuff, a computer/guest room, and a room full of cat boxes and assorted junk, we have a playroom, a toddler bedroom, and a office/guest room.
He did not, however, balance the checkbook, pay bills, sort the mail, or attend to any of the other regular household-upkeep stuff that I do. My mom was here, and she played with Piper a lot, but somehow this did not translate into free time for me. I find that this happens a lot with my family. I spent three weeks at my parents' house, where there were plenty of people to play with my daughter and keep her occupied. Somehow, despite a roster of adult playmates, I did not complete a single one of the three knitting projects I brought with me (or the four that I added while I was there). I barely got to sit in front of a computer or check my e-mail on my phone. I didn't cook half as much stuff as I had planned.
Not only did I not get to the cooking and crafting that should've come with some kid-free time, I barely took any pictures, didn't get to visit everyone on my list, and didn't even make my requisite Michigan-visit trip to Belle Isle. There just wasn't time to do it all.
I do not know why this happens. It just doesn't add up, and I can't figure it out. I suspect that it has something to do with my mom, for the same reasons that it takes three hours to leave the house when she is with us and we never manage to get anywhere on time, or the mysterious force-field surrounding her which somehow means I never get one usable photo of Piper when she is in the room. There is some sort of warp in the time-space continuum surrounding her, and it throws a big monkey wrench into all my plans.
Piper, however, had a blast playing with her grandparents, aunt, and uncle. So far she seems to be re-adjusting fairly well. I thought she might freak out when we came back and all her stuff was moved around, but really she's quite pleased with the bedroom + playroom arrangement. It doesn't seem to have helped her sleep any better, but hey, I can hope, right?
Because of the trip, I did NOT meet my goal of 30 posts in 30 days for November. I did pretty well until that last week and then it all went out the window. Oh, well, I tried, right?
I am still playing catch-up, a week later. While we were gone, my very nice husband took three of our more troublesome felines and got them shots, then took them to a no-kill shelter. He then had our carpets professionally cleaned, and moved our daughter's stuff from the den (which had been her bedroom because it was the biggest room with a closet) to the two back bedrooms. So now, instead of a giant room full of her stuff, a computer/guest room, and a room full of cat boxes and assorted junk, we have a playroom, a toddler bedroom, and a office/guest room.
He did not, however, balance the checkbook, pay bills, sort the mail, or attend to any of the other regular household-upkeep stuff that I do. My mom was here, and she played with Piper a lot, but somehow this did not translate into free time for me. I find that this happens a lot with my family. I spent three weeks at my parents' house, where there were plenty of people to play with my daughter and keep her occupied. Somehow, despite a roster of adult playmates, I did not complete a single one of the three knitting projects I brought with me (or the four that I added while I was there). I barely got to sit in front of a computer or check my e-mail on my phone. I didn't cook half as much stuff as I had planned.
Not only did I not get to the cooking and crafting that should've come with some kid-free time, I barely took any pictures, didn't get to visit everyone on my list, and didn't even make my requisite Michigan-visit trip to Belle Isle. There just wasn't time to do it all.
I do not know why this happens. It just doesn't add up, and I can't figure it out. I suspect that it has something to do with my mom, for the same reasons that it takes three hours to leave the house when she is with us and we never manage to get anywhere on time, or the mysterious force-field surrounding her which somehow means I never get one usable photo of Piper when she is in the room. There is some sort of warp in the time-space continuum surrounding her, and it throws a big monkey wrench into all my plans.
Piper, however, had a blast playing with her grandparents, aunt, and uncle. So far she seems to be re-adjusting fairly well. I thought she might freak out when we came back and all her stuff was moved around, but really she's quite pleased with the bedroom + playroom arrangement. It doesn't seem to have helped her sleep any better, but hey, I can hope, right?
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Eating Pretzels on the Steps of Henry Ford's Boyhood Home
We went to Greenfield Village on Sunday with my dad. It was way fun. Except for the part where Piper jumped into a giant puddle of horse pee. That part was gross.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Cleanliness is Next to Dadliness
My parents like it when I visit.
Not only do I bring the Sacred Grandchild, Best Baby Ever, Smartest Child In The Universe with me, but I cook.
And cook. And cook.
I cook big lunches and dinners and freeze the leftovers for my mom to take for lunch, or for everyone to defrost and eat on nights when nobody feels like cooking. When I leave, their spare freezer in the basement is full of stacks of neatly-labled Tupperware containers. I make a lot of food, and it's usually pretty healthy and whole-food focused. I use whole-grain flours, fresh vegetables, good meats, and as little fat and cheese as I can get by with. They all eat it and they love it.
My parents remodeled their kitchen a few years ago, and turned it from a cramped, dark horrorshow into a bright, airy space with TONS of cupboards and counter space. There is also a six-burner gas range...and my dad.
My dad does the dishes and cleans the kitchen. It is his chore around the house, his "thing" that he does, and he likes it that way.
Which means that I can come into a sparkling kitchen every evening, make honey-basalmic glazed chicken and pecan pie for dessert (or cheddar-potato soup, or tortilla soup, or turkey chilli, or pumpkin cupcakes with cream cheese icing), and not have to clean up afterward.
Sure, I tidy up as I go, like any good cook (or houseguest) should, but when I'm done eating, the mountain of pots, pans, and plates is not my problem. Someone else will deal with and actually prefers to do it himself.
It's fabulous.
Not only do I bring the Sacred Grandchild, Best Baby Ever, Smartest Child In The Universe with me, but I cook.
And cook. And cook.
I cook big lunches and dinners and freeze the leftovers for my mom to take for lunch, or for everyone to defrost and eat on nights when nobody feels like cooking. When I leave, their spare freezer in the basement is full of stacks of neatly-labled Tupperware containers. I make a lot of food, and it's usually pretty healthy and whole-food focused. I use whole-grain flours, fresh vegetables, good meats, and as little fat and cheese as I can get by with. They all eat it and they love it.
My parents remodeled their kitchen a few years ago, and turned it from a cramped, dark horrorshow into a bright, airy space with TONS of cupboards and counter space. There is also a six-burner gas range...and my dad.
My dad does the dishes and cleans the kitchen. It is his chore around the house, his "thing" that he does, and he likes it that way.
Which means that I can come into a sparkling kitchen every evening, make honey-basalmic glazed chicken and pecan pie for dessert (or cheddar-potato soup, or tortilla soup, or turkey chilli, or pumpkin cupcakes with cream cheese icing), and not have to clean up afterward.
Sure, I tidy up as I go, like any good cook (or houseguest) should, but when I'm done eating, the mountain of pots, pans, and plates is not my problem. Someone else will deal with and actually prefers to do it himself.
It's fabulous.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Procrastinating.
Last week, I decided to go to Michigan for a visit. The cheapest tickets were, weirdly enough, for a Saturday less than two weeks away. Which meant that I had about 9 days to prepare for a nearly-month-long stint away from the house.
Because I am a masochist, I clicked "buy."
And promptly spent the entire next day re-organizing my yarn and updating my Ravelry queue. I did not pack, or clean, or do laundry, or any of the other things I should've been doing. I did take care of some book-keeping stuff, but that was mostly because I was already online.
I have also decided that before I go, I will finish two of my three remaining Pay-It-Forward swap packages, do a bunch of blogging, and re-arrange my bedroom.
We leave on Saturday - this Saturday - and I haven't started packing yet. I don't even know where three-fourths of the stuff I want to take is.
Procrastination is really an art, as far as I'm concerned.
Because I am a masochist, I clicked "buy."
And promptly spent the entire next day re-organizing my yarn and updating my Ravelry queue. I did not pack, or clean, or do laundry, or any of the other things I should've been doing. I did take care of some book-keeping stuff, but that was mostly because I was already online.
I have also decided that before I go, I will finish two of my three remaining Pay-It-Forward swap packages, do a bunch of blogging, and re-arrange my bedroom.
We leave on Saturday - this Saturday - and I haven't started packing yet. I don't even know where three-fourths of the stuff I want to take is.
Procrastination is really an art, as far as I'm concerned.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Worn OUT.
Piper and I are in Michigan, kickin' it in the suburbs of Detroit for a couple of weeks. Well, more accurately, we have been here for a week and have one more to go.
And I am so TIRED.
I am always tired when I stay at my parents' house. Something about this place sucks all the energy out of me. I am always dehydrated; my sleep is restless; I wake feeling as though I were dragged behind a truck. Piper seems to be feeling it, too; the purple circles under her little eyes are growing larger every day, no matter what time she finally succumbs to exhaustion and tumbles into bed.
The trip (or maybe it's just the house) seems to be having some odd effects. As the days go on, she is getting more and more possesive of me, but it seems to be only at my parents' house. When we are out somewhere, she's okay exploring and wandering around, but when we're here, she freaks out if I leave the room. Yesterday I went to use the first floor bathroom - which is located not ten feet from where she was watching Yo Gabba Gabba! - and she freaked out, came running, and screamed "Mommy! Mommy!" while pounding on the bathroom door until I opened it and let her in.
We worked on potty-training before the trip and have kept it up during, but she has a very high number of accidents when we are at my parents' house. Since we've been here, I took her on a 3-hour jaunt to Ikea, an all-day excursion to my in-laws' house (complete with an hour-long car ride there and two-hour ride back), an all-afternoon trip up to Troy (1.5 hours each way because of #@!@#!$ traffic), and an afternoon play date at a friend's house. She remained dry throughout all the excursions. The only problem we've had was when I took her to the park, and that was my bad - 45 minutes of playing outside where there's no bathroom is just asking for trouble. But here at the house, she has managed to pee on the livng-room carpet at least a dozen times. I don't get it.
It's been nice to have this little trip - the closest thing I've had to a vacation in a loooong time - but I think Piper is ready to go home. I'm getting there, too - no matter how many days I stay when we come here, there's never enough time to go everywhere and do everything I want to do. And usually I can get a lot of the people to come out here to the house, but for some reason this time they all want me to come to them, which has meant a lot of running around. It is making me sort of sad and bitter about our life in Charlotte (well, more sad and bitter, anyway) because it seems so empty compared to all this. I have friends here who want to spend time with me, things to go and do, places to walk around and playmates for Piper. We have none of that in Charlotte, and as much as I miss Ryan and my little house and the rhythm of my days alone with Piper, it is also like a very peculiar version of solitary confinement. I guess I am feeling a bit wistful about the life we could've had here but didn't. We did try, but the pieces just didn't fall into place.
Or maybe I'm annoyed that despite my parents' sweet digital cable setup, I have not managed to get up and catch my morning re-runs of The West Wing even once.
And I am so TIRED.
I am always tired when I stay at my parents' house. Something about this place sucks all the energy out of me. I am always dehydrated; my sleep is restless; I wake feeling as though I were dragged behind a truck. Piper seems to be feeling it, too; the purple circles under her little eyes are growing larger every day, no matter what time she finally succumbs to exhaustion and tumbles into bed.
The trip (or maybe it's just the house) seems to be having some odd effects. As the days go on, she is getting more and more possesive of me, but it seems to be only at my parents' house. When we are out somewhere, she's okay exploring and wandering around, but when we're here, she freaks out if I leave the room. Yesterday I went to use the first floor bathroom - which is located not ten feet from where she was watching Yo Gabba Gabba! - and she freaked out, came running, and screamed "Mommy! Mommy!" while pounding on the bathroom door until I opened it and let her in.
We worked on potty-training before the trip and have kept it up during, but she has a very high number of accidents when we are at my parents' house. Since we've been here, I took her on a 3-hour jaunt to Ikea, an all-day excursion to my in-laws' house (complete with an hour-long car ride there and two-hour ride back), an all-afternoon trip up to Troy (1.5 hours each way because of #@!@#!$ traffic), and an afternoon play date at a friend's house. She remained dry throughout all the excursions. The only problem we've had was when I took her to the park, and that was my bad - 45 minutes of playing outside where there's no bathroom is just asking for trouble. But here at the house, she has managed to pee on the livng-room carpet at least a dozen times. I don't get it.
It's been nice to have this little trip - the closest thing I've had to a vacation in a loooong time - but I think Piper is ready to go home. I'm getting there, too - no matter how many days I stay when we come here, there's never enough time to go everywhere and do everything I want to do. And usually I can get a lot of the people to come out here to the house, but for some reason this time they all want me to come to them, which has meant a lot of running around. It is making me sort of sad and bitter about our life in Charlotte (well, more sad and bitter, anyway) because it seems so empty compared to all this. I have friends here who want to spend time with me, things to go and do, places to walk around and playmates for Piper. We have none of that in Charlotte, and as much as I miss Ryan and my little house and the rhythm of my days alone with Piper, it is also like a very peculiar version of solitary confinement. I guess I am feeling a bit wistful about the life we could've had here but didn't. We did try, but the pieces just didn't fall into place.
Or maybe I'm annoyed that despite my parents' sweet digital cable setup, I have not managed to get up and catch my morning re-runs of The West Wing even once.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Not So Sunny
I'm in a bad place this (these) week (weeks). Everything I write is so melancholy and bitter. Everything I feel is so melancholy and bitter.
I am trying to focus on the good stuff: my loving husband, my beautiful baby, the fact that my little family is safe and warm and healthy. But in and around and behind those things creeps the fact that I am tired of living here. The arrangement has lost its lustre. I have never done well when I have had to live with my mother, and three continuous months of it have pushed the limits of my endurance. I am irritable and snappish these days. I grit my teeth and tap my feet. I snarl and grunt. Everything my mother does or says annoys me, it's like someone is running a cheese grater over my soul. I have to remind myself daily of all the reasons we left California. I use them like mantras. It was dirty, I chant to myself as I clench my teeth and try not to explode while my mother says for the 1,000th time that Piper is fussing because she wants her grandma. It was crowded, it was concrete ugliness and expensive trash and we hated it as I trip over a box of our clothes that's sitting in the middle of the bedroom floor because there's nowhere else to put it. Max hated his job, he was so miserable I tell myself as the box of clothes trips me a second time and I crash into a dresser, sending a cascade of our junk to the floor. I missed the rain. A stack of CD's falls behind the dresser with a clatter. We wanted our daughter to know her family.
It's not working so well these days. I am homesick for our old apartment, a place that was all ours. I am tired of sharing my baby. I am tired of nothing ever staying where I put it down, of all our posessions constantly being scooped into piles and dumped into baskets and shoved into boxes and nothing is ever where I need it to be and nothing is ever where I left it. I am homesick for the dry heat and even more so for our apartment's air conditioning, which we could turn on and set to nipple-hardening temperatures whenever we felt like it. I miss the places we used to go, even though by the time we moved I was so sick of seeing all those ugly malls and chain stores I wanted to scream. I miss the familiarity of it all, the rhythm of days that were ours for the taking.
I miss having a life of our own, seperate and far away from all this. I miss being able to try new things (like joining the Unitarian church or watching Justin Timberlake videos) without someone screeching "WHAT?!" because they don't know or understand the version of me that longs for a sense of community and would like to bring sexy back. We moved back here to be closer to our family, all of whom were so ready to love and love and love and love our little baby, but these days I wake up thinking why the fuck am I here? I want to be a continent away from these people again. I am starting to resent my husband for bringing us here, and to resent myself for not speaking out against this plan when I had the chance. I resent myself for not having fantastic job that would have allowed us to stay there. I resent California for being expensive and dirty and unsustainable; I resent Michigan for being humid and crowded with family and devoid of economic promise. I am growing morose and moody this week, I am twisting inward like a shriveled, dry tree trunk.
I am trying to focus on the good stuff: my loving husband, my beautiful baby, the fact that my little family is safe and warm and healthy. But in and around and behind those things creeps the fact that I am tired of living here. The arrangement has lost its lustre. I have never done well when I have had to live with my mother, and three continuous months of it have pushed the limits of my endurance. I am irritable and snappish these days. I grit my teeth and tap my feet. I snarl and grunt. Everything my mother does or says annoys me, it's like someone is running a cheese grater over my soul. I have to remind myself daily of all the reasons we left California. I use them like mantras. It was dirty, I chant to myself as I clench my teeth and try not to explode while my mother says for the 1,000th time that Piper is fussing because she wants her grandma. It was crowded, it was concrete ugliness and expensive trash and we hated it as I trip over a box of our clothes that's sitting in the middle of the bedroom floor because there's nowhere else to put it. Max hated his job, he was so miserable I tell myself as the box of clothes trips me a second time and I crash into a dresser, sending a cascade of our junk to the floor. I missed the rain. A stack of CD's falls behind the dresser with a clatter. We wanted our daughter to know her family.
It's not working so well these days. I am homesick for our old apartment, a place that was all ours. I am tired of sharing my baby. I am tired of nothing ever staying where I put it down, of all our posessions constantly being scooped into piles and dumped into baskets and shoved into boxes and nothing is ever where I need it to be and nothing is ever where I left it. I am homesick for the dry heat and even more so for our apartment's air conditioning, which we could turn on and set to nipple-hardening temperatures whenever we felt like it. I miss the places we used to go, even though by the time we moved I was so sick of seeing all those ugly malls and chain stores I wanted to scream. I miss the familiarity of it all, the rhythm of days that were ours for the taking.
I miss having a life of our own, seperate and far away from all this. I miss being able to try new things (like joining the Unitarian church or watching Justin Timberlake videos) without someone screeching "WHAT?!" because they don't know or understand the version of me that longs for a sense of community and would like to bring sexy back. We moved back here to be closer to our family, all of whom were so ready to love and love and love and love our little baby, but these days I wake up thinking why the fuck am I here? I want to be a continent away from these people again. I am starting to resent my husband for bringing us here, and to resent myself for not speaking out against this plan when I had the chance. I resent myself for not having fantastic job that would have allowed us to stay there. I resent California for being expensive and dirty and unsustainable; I resent Michigan for being humid and crowded with family and devoid of economic promise. I am growing morose and moody this week, I am twisting inward like a shriveled, dry tree trunk.
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