And Baby Makes Three

On August 11th, my youngest had her first baby. My third grandchild.  Weeks of anticipation...lots of Braxton Hicks contractions.  Every day I thought would be the day.  She was ready.  I was ready.  The baby’s daddy was ready.  But, the baby wasn’t.

Last year on Christmas Day, we gathered at my home for brunch...the usual biscuits, ham, bacon, eggs, pancakes.  When my youngest descended, she couldn’t wait to start scarfing down bacon.  Very strange for a committed vegetarian.

“Bacon?!" I gasped.  We gathered around the old oak table and she quietly announced she was preggers.  She started crying, I was crying.  We’re all hugging each other.  It was quite a moment.  “I can’t get enough meat,” she laughed.

She’s always been a naturalist, an environmentalist.  She’s strong willed with good values.  She’s reserved but you’ll never have to guess about how she feels about something.  She broke off one relationship because he didn’t support gay marriage.

In high school, her homecoming date broke the date because his parents threatened to leave him out of their will if he took her.  There was nothing romantic; just good friends.  A bonding of geeks, I would call it really.

She’s biracial; he’s Jewish.  They were both raised in Columbia, Maryland:  the most integrated, multi-ethnic, multi-racial community in this country.  It was deliberately founded by developer Jim Rouse to accomplish this very unusual goal back in 1970.

Whatever esteem she had for him was diminished considerably after that.  “Why not stand up to your parents?  They’re obviously wrong.”  Yep, I’m with you, girl.

About seven years ago, she found her soulmate.  My medium swears they’ve been together in many lifetimes.  Of course, I have no idea if this is true or not, but it would not surprise me in the least.

My two youngest graduated within months of each other from University of Maryland and moved into Canton, one of those upcoming yuppie neighborhoods in Baltimore.  They joined a coed adult soccer league and there he was, her soulmate.

Fast forward to getting engaged in 2010 on the beach in Phuket, Thailand followed by a family wedding weekend at a charming country inn in western Vermont in 2011.  No Vera Wang dress or cathedral with 13 bridesmaids.  A weekend dedicated to families bonding and celebrating the union of two beloved people.

With the impending birth announcement on Christmas Day, she also made it clear they had no plans to find out the gender and would not announce the chosen names before the birth.

Of course, I was the total opposite.  I knew what the gender was and called the baby by name in utero for months before the birth.  But it’s not about me...right?

When she was a teenager, she had a female doctor whose parents had named her Kevin.  Chelsea thought this was rather different and she would consider naming a daughter that since that was also the name of the father she adored.  She was barely 11 when he passed.

She and I talked or emailed practically every day for months.  She sent names she was considering, going through the alphabet, a letter a day.  She wanted to know what I thought of her choices, but also stated she was not vetoing a name if I didn’t like it.

Ask anyone in education....especially, someone who has been a teacher for years...if they like a certain name and you’ll get an earful.  Please don’t name him Marcus, his family got evicted because he crawled through the heating ducts to spy on the neighbors.  Or Cynthia, who got drunk on vodka in the school bathroom and threw up in the cafeteria.

Naturally, the name can’t be too popular or trendy.  Possibly, it could be old school.  What, like Mabel or Malcolm?  Truly, I thought they would name it Soren, after her Danish heritage, or Brunhilda, his German heritage.  I don’t know.  I braced myself and knew even if I hated the name, I would adore this child.

And then there were the questions about what kind of birthing process I went through.  Total Hell for the first one...a 26 hour labor with way too many drugs.  Epidural for #2 and totally natural for #3.  The totally natural one was by default since she was crowning when I asked for drugs.

She opted for a totally natural water birth with a midwife at a local hospital.  First baby.  Wow....very brave, very determined.  One trait she has is resolve of steel.  Must be her dad's genes.

The medium told me over a year ago that it would be a girl.  When I mentioned that, my daughter looked at me like I had two heads.

On a Sunday morning, I got a call from her soulmate.  “We’re on our way to the hospital.”

I quickly gathered a few things and headed out for the 40 minute ride to Baltimore, rushing upon arrival to the front desk where I reluctantly gave up my driver’s license and went up to her room.  I expected to be waiting with her for hours during the labor.  I was prepared with the Sunday paper and my Kindle.

I gently knock on the door, open it slightly and there is my girl, holding her tiny bundle, just minutes old.

“Oh, my God!” I exclaim. Her eyes fill with tears.  “It’s a boy.  Come meet Kevin.”

We both sob with joy.  I am ecstatic they gave life to that name again.  His first grandchild, his namesake.

I’m thinking to myself....the medium was WRONG!!??

Lost in Transition

I have been a neglectful blog writer.  I’m not proud of it.  You would think that anyone who enjoys blogging could set aside two hours a week.  But, guilt is something I don’t subscribe to, so let’s move on.

Just over three months ago I was lamenting the ridiculous work that goes into getting my house ready to sell and cleaning out the one I was moving into....no small feat since my roommate, Buff Honey, is not one to purge on any regular basis.

I truly hate cleaning....I make myself do it.  But, God knows, I feel GREAT after making those trips to the Thrift Shop and the dump.

It’s like every one of the 15 moves I’ve already made.  I absolutely dread it.  Cleaning out closets, drawers, bookshelves.  Packing it all up in boxes.  Even moving old boxes I never opened from the preceding move.

But, once I’ve moved and everything’s in its new place, I feel like I’ve achieved Nirvana!  Serene in the order of it all, vowing to keep it that way.

This move, however, is totally different.  I’m not moving into an empty house.  I’m moving into an already crowded one.  Nothing if not challenging.

This involved serious reflection.  What could I not live without?  Of course, these are material things....objects.  Truly no need for much of anything.

Before, I could get to that, however, the house had to be staged.  Furniture moved, pictures rehung...hundreds of dollars on the stager, the cleaners, the painters, the floor sanders.  Not to speak of the slave labor I was contributing.

My back, my hips, my knees were killing me!  My thirty minute daily workout was kaput.  Done.  Had to save my energy for the house.  Ibuprofen was my best friend.

Finally, it went on the market in early July after two months of emptying my wallet and my energy.  It sold about six weeks later.  Against the advice of my agent, I told the kids to take whatever they wanted.

My son had already moved into an apartment in Baltimore and needed furniture desperately.  He took most of the living room.  Others took shelves, beds, tables, lamps.

I incurred the services of an estate seller.  I confined what I wanted to one room and told him to sell the rest.  The sale would be two weeks before the closing at the end of September.

BH and I took off to Florida in late August to celebrate my birthday at an Allman Brothers concert in Charlotte on the way.  God only knows how long Gregg will last after the liver transplant.  But that’s another blog.  Gotta get there...

The home inspection is coming up.  Two days later, a terse email appears from my agent.  “The buyer has serious concerns about the property.”

Really???  All new appliances, everything’s in working order, never any water issues.  But, if you pay $500 for an inspection, he better find something.  The buyer decided she didn’t want the property unless I replaced the heating and cooling system.

Yes, it’s original to the house...25 years young...but it works great.  It’s two zoned so they’re never on at the same time.  Plus, the home inspector found nothing wrong with them.  But, she’d had to replace hers for her buyer so she wanted me to do the same.

No dice.  Put it back on the market.

But, now, I had to put it back on empty.  The estate sale took place.  Tons of stuff left.  Good stuff, too.  Antiques I had collected for years, good china, Longaberger basket collection.  The estate sellers got an auction house to come and take what they wanted and they totally cleared out the rest.

So strange to walk into the house you loved completely bereft of the warmth you created.  Nothing on the walls, no curtains.  No family pictures.  No evidence that we ever lived there.

It’s been on the market for a month now.  Not a good time of year to be selling but there are showings on a somewhat regular basis.

It was brutal throwing out champagne glasses from my mother and father’s wedding, a beautiful cut glass bowl I made my first ambrosia in, the china my late husband and I collected.

I walked away with my mattress, two bookshelves, some clothes, my everyday Le Cadeaux melamine dishes, and eight boxes of pictures, paintings, books and a few keepsakes I couldn’t part with.

My dream of redoing BH’s house has been deferred to next year.  When you’re still paying a mortgage on a house you’re not living in, it depletes your resources.

Yes, I’ve been lost in this transition....crazy busy, getting rid of things I surrounded myself with for decades. Objects I thought defined me.

And, now, it’s done.  I’ve moved.  I’m starting to make this my new home.

I’m not lost anymore.  On the bookshelf, there are the two elephants for good luck my daughter brought me from Thailand.  When I’m baking, I smile at the potholder with my son’s toddler handprints.  And the chipped mug he gave me 22 years ago that says “You can do anything, you’re a mom.”

These are the keepsakes I can’t live without.