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Noah's not been feeling well the past couple of days (congestion, grumpiness), so I thought Ethan and I could surprise him by picking him up from work so he didn't have to ride his bike in the warmth and humidity.
So I blow dried (blew dry?) my hair, put on some makeup and a pair of cute slingback wedges with the intention of leaning against the hood of our car and being all, "Tell me about it, stud," a la Olivia Newton John (and if you don't know that's from Grease because you still weren't old enough to see the 20th anniversary theatrical re-release, you cannot ride this roller coaster). I even fancied a gentle breeze might tousle my hair and add some drama.
Except, Noah was over an hour late getting out. Let me tell you, folks. An hour on a small Naval base with a three year old and nothing to do. Several long walks along the main strip wind tunnel and two trips to the bowling alley bathroom later, and my hair was a tangled mess, I had blisters from my kicky nonsensical heels, and I was hangry.*
*hungry+angry
So poor Noah. After being kept late an hour, he was greeted not by a revamped and sassy Sandra D, but a shrew who'd been pulled through a hedge backwards.
Let me just add:
Through Noah I've been making some new friends, and with the exception of Matt Spangler, when I say "new friends" what I really mean is "attractive young people who were born in the 90s." THE NINETIES. (Not that you're not attractive, Spang, it's just that you were born in the 80s, and have thus lost your fetal glow.)
Here's how one of our conversations went at a poker game the other night:
Megan: "Wait, who's Sandra Bullock?"
Me: "You're not serious."
Megan: "I mean, I just can't picture her. What has she been in?"
Me: " The Net."
Megan: [blank stare]
Me: " While You Were Sleeping."
Megan: [shakes head]
Chris: "Wasn't she in that one Speed movie? The lady bus driver?"
Matt: " Miss Congeniality."
Megan: "I think I've seen that one..."
Me: "Oh! The Proposal. With Ryan Reynolds."
Chris: "That's the one where they bump into each other naked. So funny!"
Megan: "Oh yeah!"
Yeah. The only movie that Megan could attach Sandra Bullock to was one in which she plays, basically, a cougar. Which, basically, is what I now am. Or would be, if I lost 20 pounds.
I'm so glad I didn't say Hope Floats.
Our first few days here were a bit bumpy. We returned our moving truck after dark, and the very next morning before sunrise Noah was up and back at work/school (swork? schwool?). Anyway, Ethan and I were stranded in the apartment for a few days while we figured out what to do about the transportation situation, since we only have one car.
Noah has gotten a bike. Actually, a second bike. Because we forgot our bikes back in North Carolina. Even though we specifically wanted to bring them. I know, monkey farts. Anyway, we found a great bike shop with exceptional customer service, and he bought a nearly-20-year-old steel-frame bike that he absolutely loves (you wouldn't know it was 20 years old, which called to mind this interesting article I read recently), and he's been biking to schwork every morning since, and loving it.
Meanwhile, I've had the car to putter around town, take Ethan to preschool, go to the beach, etc.
* * *
Today we had a rental washer and dryer delivered. Twas a lady deliveryman. And she hauled both machines up three flights of stairs on a dolly, by herself.
We got to chatting and I learned she's going to Navy boot camp in a few months. She has three kids, but she was a military kid growing up and loves the lifestyle and the benefits of joining. I assured her that being a little older (ahem) would actually be an asset, which we discovered when Noah, the grandpa of his class at age 28, excelled at boot camp.
The difference, I think, is that when you're a bit older, a bit more firmly rooted in adult life, and especially if you have a family, you know exactly what you're getting: a steady paycheck, fantastic health benefits, marketable job skills, etc. What's more, those things actually mean something by the time you're rounding 30, instead of being merely theoretical, as they are to a 19-year-old. Same goes for going back to school a bit later in life.
Did I mention she hauled both machines up the stairs by herself?
* * *
We're fairly settled in, we've had several of Noah's shipmates over to the apartment, Ethan's thriving in preschool, and I have vehicular freedom. Finally I've gotten over the harshest edge of homesickness and can devote my energies to the things that really matter, like judging myself harshly against my fit husband and the superhero deliverylady.
Ethan started preschool today. Or rather, Ethan grabbed preschool by the horns today and wrestled it to the ground.
"He's never been to preschool?" said the director, amazed. "You wouldn't know!"
I was worried about leaving him. New place, new people. But I should have known better: He may look like a clone of preschool-aged me, but he's most definitely not me. He walked right in, said hello to his teachers, and started baking some bread in the play kitchen.
Now I have two hours until preschool is over to sit in a quiet apartment and contemplate life. I can tease out the tangled threads of emotion I feel about all this: He obviously loves being around kids, yet I project my own insecurities about being the New Person onto him. I feel like taking care of him is my job (especially since I quit the one that actually paid money), but now for 20 hours a week, other (very friendly, very trustworthy) people will care for him. I know he needs to be around other kids, but part of me wants him to only need me.
I now have 20 hours a week to myself—almost a whole calendar day. And frankly, I don't know what to do. I think I'll start by taking a nap.
Making a two-day trip as a small military family in a moving truck isn’t as Norman Rockwellian as it has the potential to sound. No wood-sided station wagon and Route 66 license-plate games for us! In fact, the truck smelled vaguely toxic, had virtually no sound insulation, and bumped along even the smoothest road like a cantering elephant with a limp. And the kid’s favorite game is pretending to hose other cars as they sped past. So less Norman Rockwell, more John Steinbeck: Reloaded.
We waylaid in Atlanta, where even the Sheraton Club Level (thanks, Richard!) features drapes lined in leopard print. I swear to you, the commercial promoting the local news team featured a muscular dude in a tight tank top and tattoo-sleeved arms, and a few other people gesturing sassily, I can’t really remember because I was too busy trying to figure out what the tattoo guy does. Anchorman with an edge? World’s most hardcore weatherman?
When we finally arrived at our apartment, approximately 400 hours after our departure from North Carolina, I was pleased with the place but in a dissatisfying, empty way. Like maybe when one goes on a date with someone really attractive but who has no personality.
“What am I doing here?” I thought as I watched Ethan relax in front of the computer playing one of his DVDs in our empty living room. I don’t know anybody, I don’t know this place, I’m 400 miles from our home of nearly five years.
But then later, as Noah and I put the legs on the dining room table, cracking stupid jokes and laughing contentedly, I remembered: He’s why we’re here. Also, the beach.
Last month: Cody wearing one of Ethan's t-shirts, because I was told his being wrapped tightly might help his thunderstorm anxiety, like a baby being swaddled. Meanwhile, Bonnie licks the bedspread.
Tonight we took Bonnie and Cody to our friends Kim and Susan's home, where the dogs will be living while we're away in Florida. Kim and Susan have three wonderful kids and a good amount of property, and the dogs were incredibly excited to be there (they've stayed with this family before). I didn't realize how much I'd miss them until we were leaving and I glanced back, and there was Cody's little face with his innocent, neurotic, shining eyes watching me go.
Bonnie, closely monitoring Cody's anxiety levels.
We were literally steps outside Kim and Susan's door when the waterworks started, and it was only seconds later, when Noah said, "It's okay, let it all out," that the floodgates opened and full-fledged sobbing took over.
Cody, unsettled by a clap of thunder.
They were my constant, reliable companions when Noah was gone. They were always home with me, they were awake when I was (or sleeping near me) and asleep when I was (or sleeping on me).
Bonnie, never unsettled, for she is perpetually enthusiastic.
Without Cody, I'll have to make do with Noah's far-less-furry-but-astonishingly-Hobbitlike feet to tuck mine under for warmth at night. Without Bonnie, I'll only have a lifeless, furless pillow to spoon in the early morning once Noah's left for work.
Totally over it re: Cody's personality disorders.
This is an adventure they can't take with me, and I had no idea how much I'd wish they could.
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