Ides of March

2012: the year it ends (supposedly).

A recap:

January: cold and wet, trip to Oklahoma, busy
February: cold and wet, bought tickets for spring break trips, busy
March: omg!!!
    March warrants three, yes three, exclamation points. March was the destroyer month, the month that lives in the "what doesn't kill us makes us stronger" arena, the "I can't even cry this is too much," the "if I can hold on just one more day," the turn our world upside down month. March was hell and we are just recovering from it.

We received notice in February that our rent was going up. Not much, but enough that we did not want to pay it. We began looking. Around March 5, we found a place, we put the deposit on it, we made arrangements to begin moving in on March 15. Great! We love the place! It's funky, it's quirky, it's really small but big in a weird way!

On March 8, the little black car was totaled. We were fine--shaken, stirred, and confused, but fine. We didn't see it coming. We were crossing an intersection, freshly brewed coffee in hand (iced for me) when suddenly Scotty shouts out...I don't know what he shouted out. Curses? Gibberish? Sound? The loud bang and sudden force of my body being jerked forward, up, and to the right. My coffee exploded. It was like the scene in Apollo 13 when they squeeze the food out of the packaging: slow motion, large amoebas of liquid contracting, expanding, falling all over me. Our car stopped on the sidewalk; the other car limped into the adjacent parking lot, radiator fluid pouring from its busted hood. And I sat there, mouth hanging open, holding my empty coffee cup. Scotty turned, asked if I was ok, and got out of the car. I continued to sit with my mouth open, holding the empty coffee cup as I ran through a quick inventory of body, mind, and car. "We're on the sidewalk" passed through my head. I gaped at the others sitting in their cars staring back at me. I crawled out of the car, stood, and quickly leaned back against it. My legs could barely support the rest of me. A  woman rolled down her window, asked if I was ok, and then they drove away once they received confirmation that I was, in fact, well enough. The light turned green and everyone drove away. They did not stay to give a report, act as a witness, offer testimony. Nothing.

And so began an anxiety, stressful, ridiculous, exasperating wait/hurry/wait/hurry of rental cars, insurance, loan application, car shopping, wrangling, chiropractic care, with the final verdict: 0% at fault for the wreck.

We finally found the car after much deliberation, shopping, consulting, angering used car salespeople (always men), and tears over the loss of the little black car. It was heartbreaking to see it broken, wheel askew. That had been our first big purchase as a married couple, had been all over the US, was paid off, had been our home on wheels, and more. We loved that little car that could (seriously, it went everywhere! even places it never should have--I'm thinking of you Telluride mountains). We upgraded to a Honda CR-V EX-L (not, as I sleepily told Scott one day, the SE-X package). We like it, but it has been an adjustment. Little black car could park anywhere; it was a compact. This new car, Bella Blue Car, is not. I pop curbs like crazy in this thing because I still drive it like the VW Golf; it is not. It's roomy with plenty of storage and still gets good gas mileage.

Amid all of this, we were also packing up the apartment for a move midmonth. Apartment to house upgrade is really nice! We signed for a mid-month move-in and opted for an end of the month move-out on the apartment, so that gave us technically a two week window to shift. Technically because we were both headed out of town the last week of the month.

The house has a white picket fence and it is the cutest thing--tiny with this amazing backyard with raised garden beds already in place (more on this later).  There is a backhouse, the casita as a friend calls it, that we are using as my office. I am pretty sure it was a mother-in-law unit since it has a full bath and kitchen in it. Our house has two kitchens!

We are fully moved in and settled now. The settling took forever. But we each have space: my office in the casita, Scott's studio in the basement in which he has a screenprinting studio set up and ready for work.

It's nice when pieces fall back into place. I learned, again, that I am certainly not a drama kind of person. The anxiety, stress, and all really takes a toll on me. I like a quiet, calm kind of life. Let's hope there is not another like March 2012.

On reproduction

We found out a good friend is pregnant, and not in that "Hey, we planned things out and we are so over the moon happy about it" but more in this "holygodnoway still in shock" absolutely unplanned thing out of nowhere. Admittedly, I found this to be such a relief--her uncertainty, her fear, her horror, and that tiny bit of amazement at it all. And part of my heart felt like it was breaking at the same time.

It's an inexplicable thing, this sadness that I feel about this (and don't get me wrong, I am incredibly excited for this undoubtedly gorgeous baby of theirs and I am again astounded that we get to be a part of one more huge step in her life). Perhaps it is simply realizing that we are, in fact, actually growing up. That at this age there are big things, life things, adult things that are happening as I watch friends get married, buy houses, and have babies and feeling strangely not a part of those things. Not that I want them, really (except the marriage since I already fall under that category). It is more the divide, I think, that makes me sad. That here we are, still unsettled as we know we probably won't stay in Portland permanently, renting places with no desire to own a home, and having taken measures to absolutely not get pregnant. I I love this gypsy life.

I found myself walking into the bathroom the other day after talking with my sister and had this sudden clarity of "I don't want to care about something as much as you do with a child." I felt terribly selfish and awful for thinking this, but then I stopped myself. Why should I feel guilty about those thoughts? Why should I feel like I have to feel the need to care about something that much? I care about Scott; I love him with a huge love that overwhelms me and sometimes it takes my breath away still. But this love does not leave me exhausted mentally, physically, spiritually in the same way being a mother would. I have the energy to love him mightily, to travel, to hang out, to drink (and get rip roaring drunk should I so feel), to work ridiculous hours and then sleep until ridiculous hours (and I do love to sleep), to read a book from cover to cover in one day, to not have to live by certain school districts, to make rash, stupid decisions that will only affect the two of us.

I know women who want children, who have the need to have children. I don't. And it pisses me off to no end when another woman tells me "Oh, just wait. I didn't want them at your age either, but then my clock started ticking like crazy!" I want to slap her. And I think, "Thanks for making me feel like a freak, jerk, because nothing in me is ticking nor do I need to race my expiration date (heaven forbid!)." Because let's face it: a woman's worst enemy is other women. It's solidarity until one of us makes the other jealous or makes the other feel uncomfortable about our choices.

Yes, I do like children. I babysat from 12-28 as a primary form of earning money and I was really good at it. I adore my niece and nephew and can't wait to have more of those. I adore my friends' children. They are bright, cute, funny, and snuggly. I love buying and making them gifts. But I can walk away from them because they are not mine. Mommies are probably right that I "just don't know what I'm missing," but, really, I don't think I'm missing anything (I feel pretty complete...). In fact, I am so in love with my life the wonderful, strange, beautiful way that it is right now that I simply don't want to share, and I don't have to. Not to get too geeky here, but children are like little horcruxes: a mother loses a bit of herself (I won't go so far as to say she loses a bit of her soul each time, but she does lose something) each time she has another child, and she gets further and further from the woman she was. And she should. Children should change the trajectory; parents should change because of this. It is a necessary, and perhaps natural, form of self-preservation.

I likened the pregnancy thing and having children to an ocean liner trip: All these friends are buying tickets and climbing on board the ship, taking this wonderful, amazing, thrilling journey, and I am on shore waving them goodbye, crying, knowing that I am going to miss them. I have no desire to buy a ticket and board that ship. I may never want to buy that ticket. I may have a completely different journey in my future. So mothers, wave goodbye to me from the deck and I'll wish you well. I hope you do the same for me.