Lovelihood

Quite literally, actually. The Boy is at that sometimes aggravatingly curious stage in which it is not enough to merely know the words for things… He's now demands the meaning, the greater significance, the syntactical nuance of the inhabitants of his world. Also, he picks at every little thing we say. We attempt a demeanor of patience, and encourage his new role as inquisitor, and explain that "Let's roll, family" is not a literal request to tumble into the car, that "cool" has seemingly infinite usages, that the zombies aren't being mean, exactly, when they eat your brains — it's just who they are (zombies come up in conversation a lot around here).

But the other day The Boy, mulling over a Life is Good t-shirt, inquired as to the full explanation of that word. And I was no more prepared to offer even the broadest definition of "life" than to explain what the hell irony is, or where babies come from, or whether or not I've ever inhaled. But those, I actually have answers for. The truth is a pretty convenient thing. Mostly because I already know it. There's no need to formulate an answer if one already exists in a truth-cloud, ready for me to pluck at a 4-year-old's behest. All that's left is to craftfully supply it in a way that doesn't do lasting harm.

But, seriously, Life? I still don't know how to answer that one, either to a pre-schooler, or to an anonymous crowd of blog-readers. And in light of my prolonged absence from this space, the length of which can no longer be explained away with a We're-still-settling-in copout, I'll just offer up some scrappy bits of our life around here since we picked up and left Texas nearly two months ago. Life-filling may not be so insightful as life-relevance, but it's what I know how to explain. Deal. 

So, it may not have shown up on your radar, but National S'mores Day was a couple weeks ago. And we didn't actually have much chance to revel in it, either. Because I was working. That's right. Part-time employment has been procured, putting me at a computer screen two or three days a week for pay. At my preferred venue for employment, a newspaper . And while, after taxes and child-care, my net pay actually comes in at a net loss, it's nice to actually be working in my industry again. And with Mr. New Media having landed a job of his own in his industry, things are working themselves into a nice rhythm around here. But coming off of a 12+ hour workday, I decided that we needed to make up our own s'mores to belatedly celebrate that most holy of holidays. So graham crackers were rolled out and docked and tossed into the oven, marshmallow makings set to warp speed in the mixer then poured into a pan to set, an appropriate dairy-less chocolate bar retrieved from the semi-corporate hippie grocer across the street from our neighborhood playground.

We do not, as of yet, have the implements necessary for the roasting of marshmallows for the traditional ooey-gooey s'mores. One day, maybe I'll splurge on one of those culinary flash-bangs to micro-produce a perfectly scorched s'more to order. But I suspect that would take much of the fun out of the whole thing, particularly after The Boy has an epic meltdown at our refusal to let him handle the torch. Such are battles for another day. On this one, we simply settled in with mellowly sun-warmed stacks of sugar and pastry and enjoyed them with a discussion of how much we hope to never leave our new home. The boy takes his with a deconstructionist's careful methodology, eating first the marshmallow (he takes a bite, then pulls the marshmallow back to examine the moist marshmallowy insides), then munching at the graham cracker, then taking the teensiest of nibbles at the chocolate before handing it over to someone who actually enjoys such things. I just gobble mine up, taking care to ensure each bite contains each of the three s'more-ful components, but gobbling it up all the same. And then I contemplate the fairness of sneaking another after the kids are sent to bed.

Ok, so I was going offer up some other vignettes of life as it's been the past couple months, because there's been plenty of doing and making and, yes, settling-in happening around here, and even some photographs shot here and there to document it. But I'm issuing an executive order to pace myself. S'mores are enough for now. Life-meaning can wait another day.

So. We're deep in some throes here. Death throes? Throes of passion? A period of extreme turmoil and stress? Yes, yes and yes. Ok. So maybe not so much with the death part. But housing plans have been imperilled, employment proven to be a fickle partner, humidity and heat smothering any headway I'd made on my regimen of running and complaining that it's too hot to run. Yes, there's been running, slow and not so steady, likely quite painful to witness. And, let me tell you, I make much better time when I'm mentally arranging my new home than when I'm stressing about salvaging the whole operation. 

But there are still those boxes huddled in the back corner of the kitchen waiting to be transferred to the shipping container that has taken over our sideyard. And there are dozens (hundreds?) more that will be packed before the end of the month. Because, regardless of whether we have a solid destination, we've resolved to leave this state before the end of this calendar half-year. "Foolhardy" comes to mind. "Desperate to leave this state" is also a pretty good descriptor. 

Here's where this gets a bit personal, where I venture into TMI-land. Just skip the next paragraph if you don't want to hear it. I won't mind…

Before there was The Boy, there was a miscarriage. And those were truly dark days. Further darkened by the fact that I'd already mentally checked out of my job, shoved off from all those sales reps and advertisers with their grating requests for something "better." The idea that I'd now be working with all this indefinitely, without the family I'd been brewing in my belly, was enough to set me weeping at my desk in the early morning hours before my coworkers reported in. This, despite the fact that I'd previously worked happily in the same situation for years. This is what expectation does to you.

Reflecting back on those times during these, I've settled on two things: 1) we've weathered much worse, and 2) it's more Pollyanna than I'm comfortable expressing regularly, but weathering any storm is fairly manageable from the warm comfort of our family home, wherever that may be. You always hear it, and it's absolutely true. These are my people, as a friend phrased it, and they have a way of making me feel pretty ok. But I'm just guessing that I'll feel even more ok once we're back in Seattle.

So spirits around here are actually pretty high. And, after a day of cursing our misfortune, I took The Boy aside and declared that we'd be making a batch of graham crackers. But first, we needed to darken a small amount of light brown sugar, because going out to purchase a big bag of dark brown sugar on the eve of our out-of-state-relocation… that would be a reckless move. And somehow I'd gone this far not knowing that brown sugar is nothing but your regular granulated sugar laced with molasses. Who knew? Luckily, there was that near-full bottle in the back of the cupboard, purchased last winter at the grocery store down the street, where the woman who checked us out drawled at us, "Brer Rabbit, hmmm? That's what my Pappy used to get." Now that's as close to a perfect Southern vignette as there ever was.

So, dark brown sugar and rice flour and some dairy-alternatives were battered and baked and snapped into somewhat neat little graham cracker squares. There's some room for improvements that will work themselves out in later batches. But for now, it was just nice to settle back into the occupation of making things. And doubly nice to share it with that dear Boy, who is just old enough to recognize and participate in the general foul mood of that previous day.

Now, before I get back to the occupation of packing, I'll mention that, while postings here will be sporadic for a while as we pack and move and unpack and settle into (we hope) some sort of permanence, I'll be using that Twitter thing to bring you such nuggets as "Still haven't found the box containing the yarn I need to work on that blanket," and "Found this kick-ass recipe for homemade deodorant." These are two actual sentiments I anticipate thumbing into my phone while the computer is buried under a mound of packing paper somewhere. While I was at the whole Twitter thing I went ahead and got myself one of those Facebook pages to do pretty much (ok, exactly) the same thing. It's all one big self-contaminating communications mess, probably poor use of each of the tools, but whatev. I'll leave it to Mr. New Media to fume over my ineffectual use of social media. It is, after all, his job.

So, our Seattle home has been scouted, procured and submitted to the banking and escrow pros to work their paper-pushing magic. While I have yet to see the house for myself (Mr. New Media is a perfectly fit emissary for this task), I imagine that out front, above that realtor sign is one of those "Pending" slats, marking that particular territory as ours. It's an exciting development, one that has set the rest of the wheels in full-throttle motion. 

Crafty activities have mostly been suspended. Boxing up scrappy bits and pondering over the practicality of relocating the stockpile of cereal empties has become the new pastime. It's not altogether unenjoyable, although every time I place The Girlie down next to a half-packed box, it ends up becoming a haphazardly strewn-out unboxing. In no time flat. You've never before seen such a display of entropy. But I've got it down to a science, pretty much. And the secret is bankers boxes. Many, many bankers boxes. The perfect size for books, toys and the sentimental curios that accumulate at an alarming rate around here. These boxes have seen a lot of action, having moved me from state to state since I left home for college. They get packed, unpacked, deconstructed and stored away, lent out out to friends for their moves, coming back home after a couple months to await the next relocation.

Anyway, in lieu of any exposition of my latest experimentation with needle and thread, I thought I'd share the letter of introduction we submitted along with the offer we drew up for the house. I like to think it won us our new home, which is in the exact neighborhood we'd been aiming for, close enough to smell the doughnuts from our favorite coffee shop and a few short blocks to my favorite running trail. In actuality, our eventual possession of the house has everything to do with the ass-kicking awesomeness that is our realtor who managed to wrest it (the house, not her awesomeness) away from other out-bidding offers (we're not asking questions), and has probably very little to do with this bit of self-promotional pap. Still, it's the most I've made in the past few weeks, so I share.

Travel isn't really my bag. I admire those who, passport books stamp-full, rattle off their favorite destinations and boast an equally impressive list of places they will one day visit. Me, I like being home. It probably makes me a poor citizen of the world, having less of an understanding of different people and cultures than my more travelled friends. But I have an intense discomfort with being a tourist, being out of my element. It somehow just makes me feel like a transient in my own life, not quite fitting in even in the place I call home. Call it a self-consciousness, a hyper-sensitivity about race, or a quashing of any spirit of adventure that may have threatened to poke out its head in my development, or a lack of travel to places that didn't involve staying with relatives during that same period. Whatever. I'm just not comfortable when I'm not home.

So, while our recent trip to Vegas, our first vacation in ages, was a nice little departure from the routine of our days, I was happy enough to board a plane and head home. The problem is, for the past two years that we've been in Houston, homecomings have been a bittersweet affair. We arrive back at the doorstep to our rented home in the city that, for many reasons, we've never quite settled into, and turning the key just doesn't give me that warm fuzzy comfort that "home" should. 

Our solution? House-hunting in Seattle. Not the idle just-curious-what-the-housing-market-looks-like-right-now kind of house search. No. Honest-to-goodness financing-pre-approval, moving-pod-reservation-making house-hunting. We're coming home, aiming for an arrival date around July. Which leaves me a tad preoccupied in the meantime. Right now, things are still rather in limbo. Housing needs procurement. Travel needs arrangement. Belongings need sorting and packing away into many, many boxes. 

And yet I have time to browse through projects I'd like to one day, maybe, kind of get to, when I once again have spaces designated for things like craft detritus and plants I'll forget to water. 

The short list: 

Lightbulb terrarium so I can play a little with glass and metal and plantlife. Sweet.

Twig hooks and pins to better organize ideas, light rain jackets, projects, and everything else. Right.

Pocket mirror to feed my inner narcissist.

Fabric tape because the combination of tape and fabric is quite possibly pure magic.

Bloomers so my tooshie might be as cute as The Girlie's.

Bottle garden to give me an excuse to get glass cutting supplies.

Paper because it seems like a project suitably messy enough to entertain The Boy for a couple minutes.

Bird's nest helpers because, while the Seattle birds don't have all the flash and glam that these Southern ones strut around with, they deserve to live in fancy, technicolor homes.