Back home

Hello! Here we are!

So we're all moved in, except for a few bins of crap, which persist because my husband is mentally ill. We moved from a relatively spacious house to an apartment that is approximately the size of a walk-in closet, and Scott thinks he can bring along his "mementos" and other useless debris that the voices in his head tell him he must never discard. Scott is way more sentimental than I am, it turns out. I gleefully shredded fifteen years of journals (I know people were alarmed by this move, but please believe me when I tell you that there was nothing worth keeping in those journals), donated all of Henry's baby toys and clothing, and practically had to be stopped from starting a memorabilia bonfire in the backyard. I got memories in my head-parts, so what do I need scrapbooks for? Is my motto.

At any rate, we're back in Brooklyn, and I don't think it would be possible for me to be happier. There's always some sadness when you leave a place, and I do miss my New Jersey friends, but we love it here. Love it. We love the things that would probably drive other people insane. Okay, I could do without the constant noise coming from the people above us, who are housing either a rambunctious child, or a pony, or both. And some of the neighbors really enjoy engaging in spirited debates in the stairwell, which can be grating. But otherwise, wow, we're pleased.

I wasn't sure how Henry would adjust to the new setting. He was pretty blasé about the move, but then, he seemed equally unperturbed when we moved to NJ, but once we were settled in, his heart closed down. So far, though, all is going swimmingly. It doesn't hurt that we're so happy to be here, that he has friends and relatives around the corner, that there's a playground across the street, or that he's a superstar in his new school. Apparently when you're in kindergarten, being the New Kid makes you an alluring, mysterious figure, and not an awkward outcast. Also, there are Legos. Which is really all he needs to make it through the day.

Recently Asked Questions

Didn't you, like, just move?

Actually we moved three years ago. And you call yourself a faithful reader? You sicken me.

Didn't you say you liked New Jersey?

Sure, there's plenty to like here. We just like it better in Brooklyn.

Why did you move in the first place, stupid?

I do believe you answered your own question.

No, really.

Why did we move? It's all a blur. We were young and foolish. Our parents asked us when we were going to grow up and get a real place to live. Our friends moved out here and loved it. We thought we wanted a yard. We believed that house ownership would be intrinsically rewarding. We thought it wasn't too far from our friends and family. We were sure our other friends would follow our move.

And now you're moving back. Tell us more.

About a year ago, Scott told me he wanted to move back to Brooklyn. I actually fought him on it. I was all, "But the space! And the, uh, space! And Henry has space! And did I mention the space? So much space. Spaaaaace." We squabbled for about fifteen minutes, and then I came to my senses.

We miss our friends. Our family members are either in Brooklyn or much closer to Brooklyn than New Jersey. I loathe having to get into a car to do anything. Scott hates our damn yard. And we both think home ownership is highly overrated. We'd much rather spend our weekends going to the park or museums or flea markets or ANYTHING than spend our time tending to a house. We miss looking out the window and figuring out the weather based on what people are wearing. We miss take-out. We miss feeling like we're home.

How does Henry feel about the move?

It's hard to say. If you ask him, he will claim to be thrilled, but I think it's more complicated than that.

The other day he told me, "If you think I'm sad at all about moving, you just blow that thought out of your mind." I do think he's a little sad, though. Sad but excited.

I live in a big city. Should I never move to the suburbs because you didn't like it?

Yes. You should also like purple, because it's my favorite color. Also, Earl Grey tea is your new favorite. Write that down.

We have many friends out here who love it, who can't imagine going back to the city. These people are smart and hilarious and trustworthy. We have other friends who can't imagine living anywhere but in a city. I think it's safe to say we fall into the latter camp. We just had to leave the city to figure that out.

And we're going back, in eight days. Excuse me while I jump up and down for a few minutes.

Apologies in advance

I am sure that posting will be light for the next few weeks because of the move. The imminent move. The frighteningly imminent move.

We need to be out of here by March 1, which means that we need to, uh, pack. Pack, and more importantly, discard whatever we're not taking with us, which is a lot. We've spent the last three years filling up this four-bedroom, two-floor-plus basement house, and we're somehow going to have to pare down our belongings to fit a 900-square-foot apartment. I don't really know how this feat is going to be accomplished, but I suspect several charities are going to get some very large bags full of our belongings, and several more of our neighbors will be bequeathed whatever's too big to stuff into bags.

Why is the idea of tossing away everything so exhilarating? Or is it just me? I like to buy crap just as much as the next consumer, and yet the idea of setting everything out on the curb fills me with glee. We have very few items that I'd feel sad about losing. I'm afraid that once I start shedding belongings I won't be able to stop. I'm going to be in the new place and realize that I gave away all my pants.

The new place! We have a new place! So, uh, I hope this house closing goes smoothly, because otherwise, whoops. We're renting in the heart of Park Slope, and I will officially be that most loathed of creatures—the Park Slope Mom. I intend to start pushing around a double-wide stroller, just for the hell of it. While walking slowly. And drinking a latte. And shouting at my imaginary daughter Finona not to run into traffic.

Mulch madness.

It was the mulch that did it.

Before we moved to the suburbs, I thought gardening was a hobby for well-mannered senior citizens who wore long gloves and big floppy hats and pruned a bit each morning as they hummed their favorite oldies. I thought keeping up a yard meant mowing and watering. The End. I thought picking out lovely plants and keeping them in good shape just meant going to the nursery, saying "I'll take those, those, and those," and then they'd magically show up in our yard, and because I'm a spunky sort who doesn't need things done for me, nossir, I'd plunk them into neat holes that wouldn't be any problem to dig. Maybe I'd make Scott dig them, if the holes were large.

I was wrong on all these counts, of course. Planting and gardening involves science and heavy lifting. It involves endless weeding and finding out that your yard is composed of clay and unexpectedly large rocks. It means pulling muscles you never knew you had. Gardening is not for sissies. Those old people who like to garden? I wouldn't mess with them if you paid me, now. Who knows what they could do with a shovel?

But the mulch, damn it, the mulch was too much. I knew about mulch and its importance, vaguely, so the first time I planted some things I came home with a couple of bags of mulch—which were surprisingly heavy! Huh!—and proceeded to pull every muscle in my body dumping them out all over the garden bed, my feet, and most of my legs. I raked the mulch around, and then saw how little of the ground I had covered. And I wept.

It turns out, and I know you know this and you're shaking your head at what an idiot I am, you need truckfuls of mulch. You need to visit Mulch Planet, and fight the natives until they surrender or die, and then denude their Mulch Mountains and Valleys, and transport all that mulch directly to your backyard, and maybe that would be enough. So much mulch, you need.

And the mulch doesn't stay. It goes. And then you need MORE MULCH.

A sane person would say, well, we could have hired a landscaping company to do the lawn upkeep and the mulching for us. That would have been the sane, sensible thing to do, but it would also be the thing to do if we had any cash with which to do that. Sadly, if we were to keep our yard looking halfway decent, we'd have to perform the upkeep ourselves.

I thought I'd get used to the fertilizing, the pruning, and of course the mulching. But I never did. I'm sorry to say this, yard, but now I dislike you. I see you and you're just a nagging reminder of all that I need to do, all that I haven't done, or the half-assed job that I did do just to make myself feel better. And now that I've mulched everything in the front yard that required mulching and I can't lift my arms without screaming, I am officially over having a yard. I want to move to a magical place where I'm only responsible for the inside of my home. Where if I feel any guilt, it's just because I haven't used the vacuum cleaner in a week.