And by “that,” I mean we moved into our first house with an eight-month-old in tow, made it through the holidays two weeks later (with decorations and a tree, thank you very much), introduced A. to her first snow, were burglarized at our new house (including my brand new Mac Air), lost our nanny for two weeks afterwards (illness, not like in the jungle), and dug a moat around our property and filled it with sharks to protect ourselves from further theft.
Well, all except that last bit, which I’m only not doing because there’s some silly city ordinance about wild animals and bodily harm. Whatever.
So we’re in a bit of a recovery phase. We weren’t feeling very settled in the new place anyway – only here a month, plus difficult to unpack with a speedy baby – and the burglary set us back considerably: bad feeling about the new neighborhood, panicked about safety while R. travels, and an unwillingness to attach to a place that was the site of a serious scare. (The baby and I were home when it happened.)
Settling in to the point of feeling at home after that feels like going back to that one restaurant I really liked but where I got food poisoning last time, you know? Or going out again with a guy who…I dunno: stole your purse? Which you wouldn’t do. Scratch that one. It’d be like…wait: I’ve got it: it’s be like every time you showed up at the movie theater to see Ben Affleck in anything between Good Will Hunting and The Town. Like that. You just want it to be better but it’s just not happening. Until it does. Finally.
So I’ve been having a really hard time lately, but this week might be that “finally” place. Maybe. We’ll see.
It probably doesn’t hurt that I spent all day yesterday sorting out a security system, packing evacuation kits and testing all the smoke alarms. I’ll admit that that does make me sound like a bit of a freak, but I’m a safe freak, so I’ll chat with you later when you come by to borrow water and canned tuna after the big earthquake. That’s all I’m saying.