Friday, June 27, 2008

And onwards

The time has come for us to move from the house we've been renting for a year. It's served us well in that it was close to the hospital that my obs/gyn was based in for all those pregnancy consultations, and indeed where she delivered Julia. I insisted on having our labour hospital close to home just in case Roberto's occasional lazy spells meant he'd miss the labour.

The stairs, unfortunately, finally caught up with me. It's one thing trotting up and down hundreds of stairs once or twice a day, but quite another when you have a baby and are up and down like a jack in the box five times in an hour to settle her, or to retrieve a pacifier, or sock, or bottle of milk. It was also somewhat trying having to navigate all those stairs after having abdominal surgery for my C-section. I don't want to remember that pain any time soon.

I will miss the location - not only are we quite literally on Regent's Park's doorstep, but I've grown very fond of Marlybone High Street with its grossly-overpriced baby boutiques. And of course there's a PC World for Roberto on Tottenham Court Road - his only high street requirement. I won't miss being on the UCLH ambulance route, nor the vast amount of fuel emissions when taking Julia for a walk that does not involve the park. Traffic noise has become the vessel for all my projected hatred - if someone pisses me off, I curse at the passing cars.

Moving is supposed to be one of the major stresses in life. Moving with a baby is just plain stupid. My excitement at being far away from the police and ambulance sirens, as well as the bastards that hoot outside our house when the lights change, is blinding me from the reality of what lies ahead. The solution? Hire people to do it, and lots of them. I took the same approach for our wedding, but still got stressed. That's what happens when you're a control freak - the people you hire land up getting an easy ride, and you resent the money you're paying them because you end up doing it all yourself anyway. Nothing like knowing your flaws and succumbing to them regardless.

I will also not miss the people who slowly walk past our house and stare in, as though we were zoo animals. I am as fond of looking into other people's windows as the next person, but for god's sakes, at least have a bit of style and be discreet about it.

The inevitable pre-move clear out is also looming. This means having to chuck things away that I do not need or use. I am terrible at this. I always think that I will need or use something, some time, even if it's 10 years in the future, when I've eventually lost the weight, and tight hot pink jeans have come back into fashion. At some point I am going to have to make peace with the fact that my inherent laziness and lack of self discipline means I will never be thin. Ever.

My mother kept nothing. She had some fabulous velvet-covered high heel shoes I lusted after as a child. I'd put them on and pretend to be Elizabeth Taylor. By the time I was able to fit into them and they would have been considered very very cool in a vintage chic sort of way, they had long gone to charity. Likewise any items she may have had from the 70's, back when she was a hot leggy young woman who wore beautiful clothes that didn't have to be baby/kid proof. Gone, all gone. I am determined to keep some of my nicer outfits for my daughter, as I've done with some of my childhood toy treasures. If it means going into a box with a ton of moth balls and into storage - so be it.

Robert and I keep talking about the fact that we need to start sorting things out, which leads to a big discussion of the mountain of work that lies ahead. This results in us getting stressed, which calls for a glass of wine and game of scrabble to calm the nerves. And, inevitably, another evening passes with nothing done. There are few things as enjoyable and debilitating as procrastination. And, I'm glad to say, we have both perfected the art beautifully.

1 comment:

Paula Kechichian said...

You're brilliant!