Moving sucks goat balls. -Me
1. Moving Effing Sucks. I’ve been in this apartment for about two years. My friend Tony found it for me when life seemed all too chaotic and overwhelming. I was a new mom, shuffling back and forth between court dates to try to secure my custody of Ben and totally confused about where to live. I legally was bound to this tiny island even though I think I’ve always dreamed of raising my offspring in the kind of place that permits a rope swing hanging from a tree, a ton of grass with dandelions, and a giant tree that flowers in Spring. At the time Ben was born I was living in a particularly snobbish building on the Upper East Side to tend to my then boyfriend’s particularly snobbish taste. I hated every second of being there from the time my son was born. Aside from it being over-priced, I was by far the youngest mom in the building (by at least a dozen years), and I remember hearing someone in the elevator on the way up to my 43rd floor apartment with Ben strapped to my chest whispering, “I guess that’s one of those Puerto Rican nannies… I hear they’re good.” I was ready to smack that lady upside the head. I’m not Puerto Rican, but if I was I think I’d be even more enraged… I knew when I heard that plasticked-up old wench behind me that it was time to move. It was simply not my fault that I was fertile, youthful, and seemingly out of place with my unbleached, wavy hair. So, like all good young people do, I moved as far downtown as I possibly could.
2. Shucks. In the two years since Ben and I have lived in this fun duplex, we’ve shared a million memories and experiences. He learned to walk here. I learned how to parent here. He learned to talk here. I learned how to go out on a date without crying because I was leaving my little guy with a sitter for a dinner. He learned how to giggle here. I learned that his smiles are all that matter to me. I feel like I want to trap all those memories in a box or a locket or something and tuck them away somewhere special until I need them in the future. Maybe it’ll be his first time at summer camp, or the first time his dad has him for a full week… I don’t know. I just know that I’m going to want to call on those memories as some kind of special reserve one day, and I sort of wish I didn’t have to move so the corners of those memories could stay in tact forever and not get yellowed by time.
3. Apartments Are Small. Who knew? I think I got spoiled living in this giant duplex, because on my search for the perfect 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom apartment over the course of the last few weeks I’ve relearned the one lesson that so many New Yorkers learn on their very first day here: space is freaking precious. What most buildings want for one month in a 2 bedroom apartment in Manhattan is basically the average yearly salary of someone living in a typical South American country. And the best part is, that’s for about 1,200 square feet. We’re not talking about a mansion, here. When I started searching, I thought “2 or 3 bedrooms, definitely 2+ bathrooms.” I continued to live with my head in the clouds and let visions of indoor pools, play rooms, gyms, concierge services, and parking spots crowd my head. I wanted sun-drenched, high-floor, sweeping views, granite everything, marble this and that, and 15′ ceilings. Then I realized I’m delusional.
4. Now. I’m just aiming for something sizable and within walking distance of Ben’s Greenwich Village preschool that he’ll be starting in the fall, and not that far from my SoHo office. Fingers. Crossed.
