Twilight on James Avenue

It’s 6:51PM on Sunday evening and here’s what’s happening.

Outside the James Avenue block party is in full swing. There’s a band playing some “oooh-eee baby” song, and a bunch of kids and parents across the street are making mondo bubbles. Kate and Mark are in the pink bathroom, as we call it, where Kate is holding court on the Big Girl Potty and Mark is running the bath water.

And here I am, in a peaceful moment with all the windows open and evening light casting a happy glow on the house. The house even seems to be in the afterglow of the day. Two red balloons from Kate’s birthday party divide the space between the living and dining rooms, and evidence of new gifts–dolls with bottles, books and CDs and a cool art easel are still in tote bags, hauled back from the lake where we had a picnic.

I’m in that in-the-moment frame of mind that I never seem to get to in yoga class where I’m enumerating the errands I need to run or letting work worries needle their way into my mind. Right now I’m right here, and life is good.

Today’s party for Kate turned out to be just the kind of party I wanted. Not too many friends–just some of Kate’s local chums and her cousins. And no excessive food or entertainment hoopla. Just a nice picnic in a lovely setting–complete with fried chicken, cole slaw, watermelon and chocolate cupcakes with strawberries on top. I think a 4-item menu is brilliant. Perhaps I’ll write an entertaining book based on the laws of four foods, and make a killing.

And tomorrow, little Miss Kate, long known as Baby Kate, turns two years old. And she continues to dazzle and delight us. My God, I adore her. She’s got her own ideas, her own agenda, and she walks around with her curly blond pigtails bouncing behind her just having herself a good old time. It’s infectious.

The other afternoon when I came home early from a conference Kate was hanging out with the nanny. Dismayed by all the branded party hats (Elmo, Nemo, Princess something or other) I’d bought some solid colored hats and pompoms, glitter pens, curly ribbon and foam stickers. We sat down and had a little craft party making silly colorful hats for today’s picnic. Kate was so delighted and engaged and sweet and luminous I turned to the nanny and said, “Look at her! How did you stand it?” To which she said, “I know! I can’t. I kiss her a hundred times a day”–which made me secure in the fact I wasn’t the only one who was under Kate’s spell. It’s good knowing if I’m not there to constantly adore Kate, there’s someone else who does.

In two years of parenting I’m not sure if I’m getting smarter or still feeling my way along–and I’d imagine that parents of teenagers and adults continue to wonder the same thing. I’ve recently had experiences that seemed to underscore both points.

The other day I realized what I needed to do was get duplicates of Kate’s favorite “loveys”–the stuffed puppy and duck she needs to tuck under each arm (dog on the right, duck on the left) at nap-time and nighttime in order to doze off feeling protected by her posse. Peggy had asked for birthday gift suggestions for for Kate and I called her thrilled to have an idea so wise and practical to proffer. (What a good mother I am!)

Later that night after Kate had been asleep for a few hours she suddenly started to bawl. Uncharacteristically, I’d just painted my nails so Mark went in to check on her and called out, “She threw up!” which put us both into turbo Silkwood shower mode–stripping both Kate and Mark down to shower, and me doing a toxic scrub on the crib and floor. Of course, the Essential Doggie and Duckie got, uh, violated in the episode, and I needed to toss them into the wash. So, a half hour later, squeaky clean and in new PJs with fresh bedding, I put our poor sickie back into her crib where there was a blatant lack of the Essential Doggie and Duckie. I’d found some other things that were dog and duck-like–a dog cum wizard hand puppet from Cousin Tikloh and a pink flamingo that was at least in the duck genus. Thankfully, it wasn’t that hard a sell to get her to accept these understudies, but I couldn’t help but think my brilliant Mom idea to have back-up loveys came a bit too late.

On the not-so-smart maternal moment, the other morning as we were all wrestling in bed Kate suddenly busted out “Don’t bug me!”, a line which amused Mark and I purely for it’s novelty, but also had us wondering where the heck she’d heard it in the first place. Mark and I looked at each other with innocent cow eyes–”I’ve never said that to her.” And even though the nanny is the other potential influencer (whose every word we obviously can’t monitor), we just couldn’t imagine her saying that to Kate either.

The next morning Mark mentioned Kate’s new expression to the nanny and she laughed and said, “I’ve heard her say that too and I don’t know where she got it!” That evening she said to me, “I asked Kate who says ‘Don’t bug me’ and she said Mommy.” I laughed it off as absurd. Oh, the things kids say!

But a few days later Mark had to reckon with me. “Uh, so I hate to tell you, but you did say that to Kate the other day.” I’d been trying to send an email for work or something and Kate was whining and demanding attention and, yes, shameful as it is to admit, I whined a bit back at Kate, “Come on, Kate. I need two minutes here. Please don’t bug me.”

The thing is, once Mark mentioned it, it seemed somewhat familiar that in my moment of utter frustration that was something that maybe I did say. Horrors! Twas I, the perpetrator!

Anyway, here we are the night before your second birthday my sweet angel Katie. I adore you more than words can say. I apologize for ever having requested you not “bug me,” and I’m sorry for all the other times when my words or actions haven’t been of the supreme maternal order. I’m just playing this whole mother thing by ear, but with the inspiration you provide it makes what could be a hard job the greatest joy I’ve ever had. I look forward to your first day of school, going with you to buy your first bra, and your father and I dropping you off at an ivy league college for which you’ve received a generous academic scholarship. I look forward to just putting a puzzle together with you tomorrow, or sitting on the kitchen floor and sharing a plastic bowl full of grapes.

You’re all tucked into bed now after having read some new birthday books with Dada, and even in your in-the-other-room-asleep mode, you still bring me joy and pride and a supreme sense of contentment the likes of which I’ve never felt, right though the walls. Thank you.

A million kisses to you dear Kate, and huge hugs with pat-pat-pats on the back. Your Mama loves you from here to the stars.

Song in her Heart

I put Kate down for a nap 20 minutes ago and just walked by her room. She is singing, “Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping, brother John? Brother John?”

Clearly, she is not sleeping. At least she is singing a sleep-related song.

The Baby in Kate’s Belly

About a month ago I was at a prenatal yoga class and we were doing the whole go-around-the-room-and-say-how-prego-you-are routine. It’s the kind of sharing with strangers that threw me for a loop at my first prenatal yoga class two-and-a-half years ago. It was weird enough to be in a room with 20 other pregnant women. And as a late bloomer to marriage and motherhood, it was even weirder that I had a legitimate reason to be part of the kind of pack I’d never been part of.

On top of that, the way everyone had a turn to talk in class was totally unexpected. Here I was coming to get some exercise, and suddenly this super personal thing–my pregnancy–turned into a slumber party-style sharing session.

Of course, it took me all of 4 minutes to drink the Kool-Aid and swap stories about late-night hip aches and perpetual peeing.

So here I was, back in the saddle at prenatal yoga for this pregnancy, and feeling smugly experienced as all these other women talked with wonder and amazement about their first times. Everyone else seemed to know down to the hour how pregnant they were–”On Sunday I’ll be fifteen-and-a-half weeks” they’d report smiling proudly–while I tried to summon up a reasonable approximation for how far along I was. (And spent the rest of the time comparing my belly-girth to still-slim first-timers who were even further along than me.)

When my turn was up I said it was my second pregnancy, and mentioned that my 2-year old also claims to have a baby in her belly. This resulted in some polite chuckling, and caused the only other second-time mom to exclaim from across the room, “That is so funny! My son says the same thing!”

Her son? Now that’s just weird.

Tonight Mark came home from work and was playing on the carpet with Kate in the way that’s so damn sweet you just bless your stars for your awesome little family. (I also get a strong hit of this feeling when Mark bathes Kate at night and I eavesdrop on their crazy-cute conversations. Some day I’ll tape them so we can play them back when she’s in the habit of stumbling home hours after her curfew and we need something to convince us to not put her up for a late-stage adoption.)

So Mark and Kate, playing on the carpet… After a few sessions of wrestling alternating with hugging, Kate pulled up her shirt and started to tell Mark about the baby in her belly. When he asked if it was a boy or a girl, she said matter-of-factly “Boy.” When asked his name, she said a quick “Ummm” in the new way she does, then said, “Rotto!”

This nearly caused Mark to fall through the floorboards with glee. “What’s that? What’s your baby’s name?” And again, with more confidence: “Rotto!”

“Rotto? The baby in your belly’s name is Rotto?” Mark was nearly as delighted by this name as he was when I came up with Wigwam Boy on the drive to our friend’s lake house in Minnesota. (I know. Isn’t Wigwam Boy a great name?!)

Thus far, Kate has only named one other thing. One of her small plastic baby dolls she calls Little Peanut, which, like everything she does, we find extremely adorable. And now Rotto. Well, it’s unlikely there’ll be a lot of other Rottos in his class at school.

I wonder what the son of that woman from yoga class named his baby.

I Didn’t Barf!

So here I am 21 weeks pregnant. I think. I mean, I know for sure I’m pregnant, unless I’ve just started really retaining water in my abdomen. It’s just hard the second go-around, as I’ve heard, to remember how far along you really are. I mean, with Kate I’d know at any time how preggers I was down to the day. “Oh, 23 and 3/4 weeks!” I’d sunnily respond to anyone who asked. These days when someone inquires I mutter that I’m due at some point in January, and hope that’s enough info for them.

I was obnoxiously healthy happy and fit when I was pregnant with Kate. One of those women with skinny arms and legs who was “all belly.” This time, uh, not so much. Let’s just say I saw a reflection of my butt in the mirror when I was getting into the shower the other day and I was stunned. It is vast. I am growing at a furious rate.

The first time I had the benefit of getting knocked up soon after my wedding when I was in peak physical form. I’d worked out like a demon pre-wedding, determined to have the arms of a goddess in my strapless gown. (I can’t help by imagine that our guests are still cooing over my buff upper bod three years later.)

So anyway, I hadn’t really “let myself go” as they say since Kate was born. But I was hardly the hard body I used to be. Besides, your body has this kinda “memory” to it from being pregnant before. So before you’re even ready to tell anyone you’re in the family way, your shirts start riding up like cropped tops.

Since liposuction during pregnancy is probably ill-advised, I guess I have no option other than to try to get some exercise now, and wrangle with postpartum saddlebags postpartum.

All that said, we are thrilled, delighted and generally giddy over the prospect of welcoming another creature into our family who has the potential to be even 1/8 as amazing as Miss Kate. And aside from my 7-week eye episode, I’ve felt fabulous, if a bit more flabulous than I’d like.

I’ve had friends who couldn’t even wear necklaces during their pregnancies because the chain around their necks made them nauseous. I’ve heard all about those who kept Saltines by their beds to calm their stomachs before their feet even touched the floor in the morning. One friend had evening sickness that was so dizzying she couldn’t even read or watch TV–she had to just brace herself to stop the room from swirling.

Comparatively, I’ve been one of those “I am woman hear me roar I’ve never felt so beautiful” kinda pregnant gals. Good hair, good skin. No stretch marks. Not a lick of nausea or food aversions. Happily making my way to prenatal yoga two times a week through Week 41. (That’s one week after Miss Kate should have qualified me for the Mom and Baby Class, for those who are uninitiated with the human gestation period.)

So, it was dismaying last week when I’d finished off yet another excellent meal prepared by my person chef (and life partner), Mark, that I felt not so fresh. I wasn’t nauseous per se, but strapped with a wicked case of heartburn. Heartburn is without a doubt the worst malady for not seeming like a bad thing when you don’t have it, and feeling like sheer medical trauma when you do.

I thought my chest would burst into flames. And that thought was actually kind of appealing, since I thought it might not be pleasant, but it’d probably feel a lot better after. Anyway, I ate 93 or so fruit-flavored Tums and tried to steady the ship. But at one point I had one of those saliva-rising-up-in-the-throat rushes that has undeniable portent to pukedom, and I sprinted to the bathroom without even stopping to pause the Tivo.

Any other normal human would be in the moment, but for me I clutched the porcelain god thinking to myself, “No, no!” And not because I simply didn’t want to deal with the unpleasantness of barfing–because I didn’t want to wreck my Perfect Pregnancy track record. No longer would I be able to smugly boast, “Never sick once!” to a friend who clearly wanted to stab me for it. Though that might not be such a bad thing…

Thankfully, my episode passed. I mean, subsided with no dinner passing back out my lips. So, my record is someone tarnished but still intact. And I’ve learned some tips from my friend Megan who has done a truly amazing job “cooking” twins alongside my silly little single pregnancy. She’s had episodes of heartburn which I’m sure make mine look like nothing more than a case of garlic breath. (Her advice: No lying down right after eating, and when it’s clear Tums won’t do the trick, go for the Pepcid.)

For now at least, I’m happy to report having a handle on the heartburn. The next step is reining in the expanding booty.

Cast Off!

Kate’s cast is off. Hooray! It was sawed off yesterday in all its stinkiness and she was given a clean bill of bone health. The twice-broken leg is evidently stronger than the other leg now with all the new bone that grew to mend it. Of course it just makes me want to put a cast on the right leg now to protect it from harm.

As the doctor came in to check her out with it off, Kate bequeathed her with a sticker and also said, “Kate beach! Kate swimming water!” So on my day off, Friday, I plan to jump in a pool or lake with her. Yippee! Summer will begin in August 17th!

In other news my return to work was hardly an easing-back-in experience. We had to respond to an RFP which meant some weekend work and more stress than usual–but we shipped it off on Thursday and it rocks! I would really really love for us to get this work. We’ll find out next week.

So sleepy. Must vegetate and give into my newest and most shameful guilty pleasure–watching the early evening entertainment shows. God forgive me.

Hello Society, I’m Back

Today I have returned to the working world. I’m, as they say, a contributing member of society again. Unless of course you consider lolling around on the couch with one eye closed while a nanny tended to my child “contributing.”

It was actually fine. There is a reason that I decided to work there which I was reminded of today. Being away for so long–7 weeks–made the best thing about the place–a pervasive niceness and friendliness–fade a bit.

Kate and I were happy to see each other at the end of the day though. She is getting more adorable and delightful by the minute, so being away from her rots.

Speaking of which, yes, her leg is in fact broken again. They mumbled something to Mark about maybe not having kept the first cast on for long enough. Greeeeeaat! The color of her new cast? Neon green!

The damn thing comes off on August 13th and we’ll hopefully not be in the “what color cast to get next” quandary for quite some time (if ever).

Oh for the Love of God

On Friday the 13th I woke up and opened both eyes. This is an involuntary, un-noticed act to most humans, yet it was a great stride for me since I’d been suffering in a (thankfully) temporary state of Cyclops-ism for five weeks.

Opened as it was, it still didn’t look right. And by “look” I mean both appear normal, and see very well. At times it doesn’t want to work and play well with the left eye, and strikes out on its own. And it just doesn’t like looking to the left or up or down. So I just manage to tilt my head at odd directions to focus in on things.

Forget being in the car though. Everything passes by in a big swirling blur, so I’ve still got to keep the right eye on Clamp Down. And that lid is still kinda droopy, though seems to be opening more widely as the days go by.

Thank you God, thank you God.

But while I have you on the line, Sir, can I ask how it is that you have this giveth and taketh away thing going for us?

Just when it seemed like we were trending toward health here Chez McClusky, Kate took a digger off the swing at the park today and appears to have BROKEN HER LEG AGAIN. Yes, the same one that just got out of a cast less than two weeks ago. Could anything be more rotten and miserable?

To magnify my Bad Mother Guilt for even letting this happen, it took one solid hour of her bawling maniacally for me to grock that her leg was hurt. The fall wasn’t that bad at all and I assumed she was just scared by how suddenly it happened, and/or was just hungry and tired, it being noon.

So I carted her home where she continued to whine, whimper, and weep. Then I finally noticed she couldn’t put any weight on her left leg–the recently fractured one. And it was like someone hit Replay on the huge bummer that was the first time this happened.

Fast forward through three-and-a-half hours at the Children’s Hospital ER–which I need to tell my single gal friends (what few remain) seems like a decent place to meet cute compassionate young medical professionals. We triaged, we waited, we moved to an examining room, we waited, Kate was examined, we were sent up to x-ray, we waited, we moved to another inner-sanctum waiting room closer to the x-ray room, we waited, she got the x-ray, we went back out to inner-sanctum waiting area, they sent us back down to the examining room, we waited, we ate pretzels, I realized no one knew we were waiting, I told the nurses, then more waiting, examining once again, putting on of a splint, and waiting for nurse rotation, then (huzzah!) discharge. We stumbled out onto the sunny sidewalk squinting like we’d been hiding in a hovel with Saddam Hussein for weeks. (Something which well could have been more fun.)

Towards the end of the whole ER process Cute Doctor “Tom” explained that the x-rays show what the radiologist referred to as a “progressive fracture” (i.e. a break that broke more). Though, it could just be that they were seeing the first break and how it healed. Ah, I love a definitive diagnosis.

So today she has a splint, and tomorrow while I’m at the neuro-opthomologist Kate sees the orthopedist, and likely gets a cast. Again. For God knows how long this time. (And what color do we get this time? Pink again? No. Been there. Maybe red? But will it clash to much with a lot of her clothes? It’s all just too overwhelming.)

I’m exhausted.

Farewell summer, I say with dramatic flourish. Farewell any chance we’ll have to swim this year. Farewell my reporting to people, “Her cast? Oh she has it off and you’d never even know anything had happened to her leg!”

Poor Kate, not even two and she knows how to work the hospital racket. Today as I’m filling out some registration paperwork she looked at the administrator and asked in her most innocent and beguiling manner, “Stickers?” She totally had that woman dialed in as a Sticker Giver Outer. At least she managed to resist saying “Fork ‘em over, lady.”

Another fun fact to intensify feelings of parental inadequacy: At one point today I lamented to the doctor that I wish Kate didn’t have to have so many x-rays–today’s being the forth she’s had in the past two months. By way of comfort, he assured me that the amount of radiation she gets from these x-rays is far less than what you get, say, flying cross-country.

Oh great. We’ve only flown cross-country with Kate eight or so times… I feel much better knowing she’s gotten more exposure to harm voluntarily from us, versus by accident. We’re at least controlling the situation, right?

Tune in for more on Kate’s Cast, Part 2.

Keep Yer Shirt On

It’s nearly impossible to anticipate the associations Kate will make.

Some of them are smart and surprising. Like when I mentioned to Kate in our recent trip to RI that we’d see my cousin Nancy, Kate said, “Pretty dress!” When Kate had seen Nancy at Easter Nancy commented a few times on Kate’s special holiday dress. “Ah yes, mother, your cousin Nancy. The one who commended me on my fine taste in formal wear.”

When she was younger and I was getting her used to sleeping in her crib, I’d prime for going to bed by saying it was time for “night night.” In turn, she made the connection that “night night” meant nursing, since that’s what we did before she went to bed. And she still has that concept in her mind a year later. One of her books shows a mother dog nursing puppies, and another a pig mama feeding her piglets. Kate, whose vocabulary has mushroom-clouded and can easily describe what she sees in a book, still points to those pictures and say, “Pig night night!”

So several months ago when Dr. Robbins proclaimed Kate precocious, he recommended we get her a potty and offer her a chance to use it before she takes a bath at night. If she didn’t want to, no biggie. Just get the concept going. (I’ve since learned this is called “toilet teaching” versus “toilet training.” William Saffire take note.)

Since Kate would always be undressed for her bath at potty time, she determined that using the potty is something one does naked. And now that she’s developed an interest in using the potty at other times of day, I have to vehemently encourage her to not strip down entirely for a quick tinkle. She doesn’t trust me when I say this though. So I’ve had to use the potty myself while pointing out in a loud sing-songy now-learn-this tone, “See? When Mama uses the potty she keeps her clothes on! It’s how big girls do it!” (Suggesting “big girls” do things a certain way is generally the key to Kate’s instant and enthusiastic compliance.)

So today, as I’m pulling down my own pants and outlining the merits of keeping them around my thighs versus taking them off to tinkle–along with my shoes, socks, and shirt–I remembered that this scenario has actually already been played out on the show Seinfeld. There was an episode where George was caught buttoning up his shirt after leaving a restaurant restroom. Jerry and Elaine manage to get to the bottom of the disturbing fact that George takes his shirt off to poop.

I’m open to Kate developing into whatever person she turns out to be, but George Costanza?

A few years ago (pre-Kate) I got together for dinner with my friend Marian. She was all aglow with news to share. Surprisingly, the news was that her daughter Nola had “pooped in the potty” that morning. Mar was beaming with pride. You’d have thought she’d won a MacArthur Fellowship. Childless at the time, I immediately concluded she was mad and/or that all parents are.

But today I too am bursting with poopy pride. Mark came into our room after getting Kate up this morning to announce that she’d pooped in the potty. He gleefully relayed the news: “So she peed, then she said, ‘Poopoo?’, and I said, ‘Yes! Yes! You can poopoo in the potty! And then–she did! I mean, so then I looked in the potty and there was totally a little turd in there!”

I was proud like a Jewish Mom on her daughter’s wedding day. I nearly regretted that Mark had flushed the evidence. (Nearly.) I should have called Marian then and there to apologize for my earlier ignorance. How was I to know?

Once I concepted the scrapbook page that would mark this scatological milestone (okay, not really), Mark and I immediately launched into a small parental panic over the fact that Kate’s interest in potty training has surpassed our research on the matter (though by now, 8 hours later, Mark has probably read everything ever posted online in English on this subject).

Our shared anxiety: What if we’re already doing something wrong? What’s the proper way to continue to encourage this delightful potty-pooping behavior? What are the best books on this topic?

And, of course, does this mean that she’s really advanced?

At any rate, one thing is for sure. I have every intention of breaking her of the stigma of becoming a Shirtless Pooper. She may be short, a little pudgy around the middle, and even a little whiny at times, but George Costanza she is not.

In the Pink

On Friday Kate had another x-ray related to this little ankle twist she performed while coming down the slide (on the nanny’s lap, no less!). And even though they couldn’t detect the actual fracture even two weeks and three x-rays after the event, they did see new bone growth, which means something was broken that was mending itself.

Even though she was walking on the leg again at this point–after 10 days of us using her stroller in the house like a wheelchair–she was limping. And they wanted to make sure the bone healed perfectly, and that she didn’t keep up the limp.

Yes, the poor lamb. But here I was, one eye closed still and trying to act/look normal, and having a Momentary Parental Responsibility Quandary (TM).

The thing was, a cast meant no swimming on our much-anticipated summer visit to RI. And what’s worse, we couldn’t even bring her to the beach and taunt her by swimming ourselves and not letting her in the water (my hastily hatched Mental Plan B). Nope. No sand could get anywhere near the cast. Just a couple grains in there could really be itchy/scrapey/hurty.

I actually whined to the doctor at one point. “But we’re going to Rhode Island. To the beach!”

I know, I know. Pathetic! Selfish!

But in short order I pulled myself together and went to the waiting room to wait for the “cast tech” (another job they never tell you about in school) to call us.

I happen to know you can get a variety of cast color options these days, since my nephew Rory did his fair share of bone-breaking in his younger days. When they asked me what color I wanted for Kate, my mental answer was, “Pink. Duh!” (I left the duh out when I said it out loud.)

My little Sweet Tart was so innocent and easygoing getting her cast on. There was a “big boy” of about 14 years in the same room getting a black cast. His was a skateboarding accident and I decided that was a much cooler story for Kate to use than having had a mishap on the playground slide.

In my best Kathy Lee Gifford cheerful Mom voice I cooed over the cast for Kate. “It’s pink, honey!” I said encouragingly, as I bid adieu to my Ocean State beach time. But really, she didn’t seem phased by the cast at all. She wasn’t fussing or crying. Of course, her naivete about it all made it all sadder, and made my childish summer fun lamentation that much more reproachable.

In fact, the only time she has mentioned the cast at all was that first day when Mark was putting her down for a nap. She looked at him pointing to the cast (head tilted for cuteness no doubt) and asked, “Dada, Pink off? Pink off?” Clearly all my talk about it being pink had her thinking that was the word for cast.

If I have one maternal regret aside from having asked if 14 layers of plastic bag might just make the whole beach thing workable, it’s that we went for the pink cast. As I pushed Kate out of Children’s Hospital in her stroller that day I realized the horrific mistake I’d made. We were on our way home for Fourth of July–Fourth of July!–and I got a pink cast? Pink?! What was I thinking that I didn’t request for a customized red, white, and blue number? My God, that would most certainly assure us photographic coverage in The Bristol Phoenix!

Well, perhaps I can work some miracles swaddling it in patriotic bunting. All hope for this vacation is not yet lost.

Remind Me Why I Like it Here Again

I swear I’m not sitting around the house wallowing in a sea of one-eyed self pity. But I must say, there is something in the air that’s got me in a mild funk, and I think it’s the growing number of friends who seem to be high-tailing it out of the Bay Area.

Monday the Politos packed their bags and bid SF an adieu after 16 years. School issues, the high cost of living, job stuff and general city-attitude malaise wore down Julie’s will to continue on here. And after a night of discussing whether a move to Marin or some other part of the Bay Area might be the antidote, the idea of Boulder, Colorado leaped to mind, and next thing you know they were on an exploratory mission looking at housing. Two months later their flat is sold, their kids and possessions are packed, and they’ve become our friends who used to live here.

In the time they were prepping for their move, they did what I’m sure I did when I decided to move out of NYC. They kvetched and complained about every element of this place that they couldn’t wait to be rid of. They lamented the public transit, the pushy people at the gym, the school system and the job environment. Granted, they had had a spectacularly crappy year for a number of reasons which may or may not have been directly associated with San Francisco. But at one point I had to sit Rick down (over email) and entreat him to suspend the Bay Area bashing until they were out of earshot from all of us they were leaving behind. Part of it was I didn’t agree with everything they were lamenting, and part of it was I agreed with some of it and just couldn’t deal with hearing it. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and drone, “La la la la la la” until they stopped talking and decided not to move after all. (That never happened.)

The thing is, that things don’t suck for Mark and Kate and I here. Mark loves his job. I have a great gig too (when I have two functional eyes and am able to do it, that is). And even though we don’t own our house, it works for us and is in a great little ‘hood with neighbors we’ve come to know and a great library, restaurants and shops just two blocks away. Somehow, the shift just from SF to the East Bay has had an impact on some of the kinds of things it seems were getting the Politos down. People truly seem to be friendlier here. We’re not ensconced in fog. And where SF has an almost weird lack of children–babies, sure, but no kids ever to be seen–we’re in a vertible family wonderland here.

But sometimes, despite all this, I feel like my emotional attachment to this place is tenuous. I think about all those places where successful professionals and their families are living happily in large homes they own, in good school districts and with friendly neighbors. And no one is working 70 hour weeks to sustain the dream. Beyond the fantasy image of this place though, I come up against a roadblock when I try to determine just where this Utopia is. And when you add Mark’s career in the limited magazine realm to the picture, our potential pool for paradise locales dwindles to even fewer places. And let’s face it, New York City ain’t going to solve our real estate woes.

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend, who casually mentioned that he’s talking to some companies in Austin, Texas. He made it all sound like a remote possibility that he’d move–though he did remark on how damn affordable a 4-bedroom house with a pool is there. Despite his downplaying the potential for the move taking place, I could just tell that he is a goner. In six weeks we’ll be planning his goodbye party and Mark and I will be down another dear old friend.

Ah well. If you love them set them free, right? And maybe someday, when the time is right for us, the McClusky family will find our Boise, or Boulder, or Austin or wherever it is that the grass is greener. In the meantime, we’ll be chillin’ here in Oakland if you’re looking for us.