Book Two: Twiddling and Toddling

Well we've done it. We got our keys late Monday afternoon, spent the week pulling groins and throwing backs, and today, Saturday (the clock just struck midnight), our living room, kitchen, bedrooms, and bathrooms are mostly complete. Though, if the apartment were a freshly trimmed pubic area, the dining room would most certainly be the neglected, unruly testicular undercarriage.

What can I say. Rome wasn't built in 5 days.

The move-out from Ridgecrest was more emotional than I expected, and not just because my postpartum hormones/menstrual cycles have been about as predictable as Texas weather. Those were 5 solid years, man. 5 years in which I began as a part-time gallery attendant, dating a rarely-there Jekyll and Hyde, dreaming of a life independent, perhaps. In the many months without light, in the many years without furniture, I wrote like a girl very much in love. Somewhere down the line, I acquired a George and my drunk disappearing act hatched from his wood barrel cocoon, spread his Good Man wings and flexed his baby maker. I swear, it happened just like that. 

My water broke in that bedroom! And I hope that the next couple that moves into that apartment know that the place is riddled with small miracles. 

So! The new place. It's a 2BDR, 2BA, 1,000sqft'er. Deceptively large, I must say. Upon first, second, and third glances, I thought for sure the place was going to be entirely too small to fit four adults, a baby, AND a George. Lo and behold, not only is there enough space, but we might even still have a corner to spare. The community seems like most. Quiet. Full of big doggies. George is loving every minute, I'm sure, as he was mostly cooped up the last so-many months I lived with my parents. He's back to being clean, involved, and adored. The neighbor fellow seems nice. He's got a dart board and I'm not-so-subtly wondering when it would be kosher to invite myself over to throw darts with him. 

Herbert the Orange

My son is three days shy of 8 months old. As we prepared to endure our 10-day limbo between moving out of the old place and into the new, we told Herb to wait to start crawling until he could drag his face on clean, new carpet. And you know what? That's exactly what he did. We set him down in the middle of the empty living room floor. Stood about 2 feet away. Then called him. From his seated position, he tipped forward like a lantern in the rain, steadied himself, then confidently willed himself to us. I teared up big time. Of course, ever since that first crawl, he's been a chunky handful. He's pulling himself up on furniture now, which has resulted in several solid bumps on the face and noggin. The apartment is not even close to being baby-proof. In fact, it's a friggin' nightmare, as far as cables, corners, and clutter is concerned. My only solution is to keep a constant eye on him until I can remedy these other things. He's got another couple months before he's walking, I think. I've still got time.

Other than crawling and pulling himself up, he's also discovered his voice. How loud it can get. How high. How soft. He screams for the pleasure of hearing himself. He blows raspberries because I figure it tickles his lips. I know I've said it before, and it's a duh thing to say, but that kid is the apple of my stupid eye, man. He is the bee's knees and cat's pajamas all rolled into one adorable, stinky little boy. Before he was born, I would wonder if I was doing the right thing being here. I would feel flighty. Like something else had to be out there. But now that he's here, I know that it couldn't have/shouldn't have happened any other way. That fact gives me great comfort.

As for my own personal development, uh... 

Yeah, not much happening in that department. Between making sure Herb doesn't knock any vowel sounds out of himself trying to climb furniture, going through the cardboard equivalent of an enormous bowl of pasta in which I eat and eat only to find that I still have so much pasta to go, and mentally preparing myself for work each day, there just isn't much time leftover for me. And that's okay. I'm mostly okay with that. At this very moment, as I type this word, and that, and that, I am sitting in my living room. Recliner a-go-go. Three different fans blowing. Lamp light from every window peeking through the blinds. I should be asleep. I go back to work tomorrow. I still have to shower in the morning. But I forced myself to stay up and write a little. I miss writing. I miss music. I miss being creative for creativity's sake. But who knows. Maybe once we're good and settled in, I'll go back to one or both of those things. Or maybe comics. Herb might like that.

Hell, I might even sit around and twiddle my thumbs in a few years. Cause I'll have time, see. And no way I'd rather spend it.