Life in Chicago

On Halves, the Other Kind

One of my best friends is in town from Los Angeles this week, so let me just preface this post by saying that I'm a bit distracted seeing as we're headed out the door shortly to breakfast and a fun day of being out and about in a (sunny and not that cold!) Chicago day.

But what I really wanted to write about today or this week is how Greg got a new job last week and will be starting in just ten days. I won't go into too many details right now, suffice to say that in his new position he'll be doing a lot more writing and a lot less computer-server-wrangling (a job that he was never suited for).

What I do want to say about Greg's new job is that during the slightly grueling (only-in-a-pins-and-needles-anticipation-kind-of-way) month-long interview process I thought a lot about marriage. I was struck by how invested I felt in the whole thing, almost as if I was applying for the job myself.

I'd never felt this way for someone else before and it was surprising. Greg and I have only been married for less than two years so I'm still getting used to all that marriage entails. I can say though that I was in a couple of long-term relationships in my twenties, and the partnership I feel with Greg is so far beyond what I felt and had with those other men. Were one of them to be up for a new job that they felt passionate about I would have looked on from a kind passive distance, leaving it up to them to figure out their path and big, life decisions.

But in the case of Greg and this new job I just felt so invested in it all. And not just because Greg is a provider for our little family, but more because I'm invested in Greg, in who he is, in his happiness, in his heart and his life path.

It's a pretty special feeling to feel that connected to another person. For better or worse, Greg definitively feels like my other half. His life is mine and all its challenges and potentials also feel like mine.

I think I'll probably spend the rest of my life learning what marriage means, but I can tell you now that it's so much more than I ever realized it would be.

Congrats on your new job, baby. I'm so proud of you.

Going Out in the World Doesn't Change Who We've Become, Only Who We're Becoming

I grew up in Atlanta, a place I hardly ever think about, a place I sometimes forget that I even have a connection to. You see, my family isn't Southern. My father was raised in Michigan, my mother in Connecticut -- our time in the South simply a brief, consolidated period in our family history.

I left as soon as I could, heading to Vermont at 18, never looking back. I've now been gone almost as long as I was there. New York, California and now the Midwest shaping me just as much as Atlanta ever did.

Like I said, I hardly ever think about the South, and so touching down at Louis Armstrong airport just outside of New Orleans last week I was surprised to feel such a rush of familiarity. I can't even say what brought it on. The light touch of humidity in the air? The flatness of the surrounding land? The lilting twang in the voices around me, or perhaps the dogwoods and magnolias already in bloom in February.

Whatever it was, my four days in New Orleans last week were suffused with memories, things I hadn't thought of in years, singular moments with my parents, parties at old Southern homes, spring in the South, Spanish moss and the smell of wisteria.

We arrived in New Orleans last week on Ash Wednesday, the day AFTER Mardi Gras.

I've visited New Orleans several times in my life, but my last time was there was close to a decade ago. Greg and Veronica had never been. We chose New Orleans back in December when we decided that, instead of giving each other Christmas presents, we'd put our money towards getting out of town during Chicago's least desirable month of February.

But I started getting anxious about the trip a week before we left. When we planned this trip there was a part of me determined to prove that we could still take fun trips even though we have a baby, but suddenly I was filled with doubt. Why did we pick New Orleans again? With a baby? The day after Mardi Gras? We should have just gone to the Bahamas or stayed home altogether.

But off to Louisiana we flew.

You see the thing about being a parent is this: You're fighting a constant battle between retaining your sense of self while simultaneously giving yourself over to what's best for your kid. It's tough. And I can't shake this determination to still do things like this trip.

Before we left I promised myself that I wouldn't get upset about the limitations that would be surely set by Veronica (early bedtimes, low alcohol consumption, etc), and that I would try to remind myself that it was enough that we were all just out in the world together.

Easier said than done.

Cut to me trying to force Greg to drink a mint julep from Pat O'Brien's in the middle of the afternoon...just because I couldn't.

For the most part though we had a fantastic time, even if we did manage to watch an entire season of Entourage due to Veronica's early bedtimes. I kept thinking about the differences between this trip and my last, one of them being that the last time I was in the French Quarter I had a fake ID and this time no one was even asking for my ID.

I saw things on this trip that I'd never seen on previous trips, beautiful cemeteries and hidden nooks of the French Quarter. We focused a lot on food, which I'll write about in full on Friday. And we walked and walked and walked, taking in the city the way you take an exhibit at the museum, meandering slowly from piece to piece.

At night in our hotel room I closed my eyes and remembered my childhood. I couldn't even help it. The moment we turned off the light and I turned to one side, my arm tucked in under the pillow, the memories came. The house we lived in Sandy Springs, the magnolia trees with their flat, waxy leaves and the creek in the woods that ran red with Georgia clay.

During the day we took turns strapping Veronica to our chests and walking the city. Her eyes grew bright as we strolled through the square or listened to jazz music at Cafe du Monde, her hand opening and closing in a little wave at no one in particular.

Parenthood has changed everything, and I thought about this every time the three of us sat down in a little cafe somewhere, Veronica in between us, her little existence the conduit for all the energy that flows between me and Greg. I thought about how in another year we'll have been parents as long as we were a couple. About how one day we'll look back and realize that our time together just the two of us will have long been eclipsed by our time with her.

This made me sad in moments, but grateful in others.

And I guess that's the thing of it. We can't change who we've become. We can only move forward from here, we can only continue to become more of who we are now.

Her and Me and Him

On Tuesday night Greg and I left V at home with the nanny and went out to dinner. I defied winter by wearing high heels and a top that was in no way winter-practical. We drank cocktails and ate copious amounts of finely crafted sushi. I don't even eat meat anymore but I still partook in a ridiculously good appetizer involving very thinly sliced sirloin and a rock that has literally been heated to 600 degrees.

Greg and I laughed and spilled a little wine and we leaned into each other and we talked and talked.

I had forgotten how good it felt to be us, just me and Greg out in the world, on a date.

As I felt myself do so I realized I have forgotten how to relax.

Being a parent is confusing. It's the ultimate identity crisis.

I can hardly remember what it was like to come home from work with an entire unplanned evening stretching out before me, to not think about what time I would go to bed or how much sleep I might get. I can hardly remember what it was like to decide to go to the movies on a Saturday afternoon on a moment's notice.

I don't remember what it was like to eat a meal languidly, to not feel as though I have to finish it as fast I can because I need to be prepared for whatever is coming next. I can't remember what it was like to drink too many glasses of wine, to stumble to bed tipsy, not worrying about anyone or anything. 

I don't remember what it was like to carry a tiny purse, just lip gloss, a cell phone and a credit card. I don't remember what it was like to think about the future as a flat, irresponsible thing, a span of time all mine. 

But I also don't remember a time when I loved anyone as much as I love my daughter. I don't remember ever wanting to be with someone the way I want to be with her. I don't recall anyone ever smiling at me the way she does, first thing in the morning, her eyes closing as a soft, little smile spreads across her face.

There are little moments, the way he leans into me as we walk through a fancy cocktail lounge together, that make me remember my old life, the one before her. But then there is her and her warm hand on my cheek as she sleeps, hot breath on my neck.

All the things I don't remember are practically irrelevant. They are no longer. There is only now and this and her and me and him. There are hours and days and time that moves so, so fast.

Sleep Training FAIL

Greg and I forayed into the dark, dark world of sleep training last night. It was miserable. Veronica wailed. I cried. Greg was mean.

Admittedly, we tried a not-very-thought-out version of the famous CRY IT OUT method. Over the last six weeks we've had our fair share of rough nights and it just felt like it was time to do something. Anything.

Here are our sleep problems. I know all of you out there without kids are on the edge of your seats.

Scenario number one is some nights it's just hard to get her to go down. This means that she'll fall asleep nursing as we watch a dvd after dinner and then I let her snooze in my lap for a while, making sure she's really asleep. Then I tiptoe back to the nursery with her and oh-so gently place her in the crib, at which point she sits straight up and starts crying. Awesome.

The Best Gift Ever

Greg and I had our little Christmas this evening and he surprised me with this sign for the kitchen. It's just like the one my mom had in her kitchen. Poor Greg, all I got him was some ski pants (well, that and half of our trip to New Orleans in February.)

The Christmas Blahs

I'm feeling a little blah about the holidays this year.

Now, before you get all preachy with me and berate me for feeling blah when I'm healthy and employed and have a wonderful husband and a beautiful baby girl who will celebrate her first Christmas, let me just say I KNOW. And I already feel bad for feeling bad.

There's no real reason for my holiday blahs. I just don't feel very sparkly about it all.

It's a combination of a few things, I think. Mostly, I'm really missing my family this year, and I don't just mean my parents. This will be the third holiday season I've spent with the Boose family and while I'm very grateful for this and do enjoy going to Ohio (for any Booses reading this, please don't take it personally), I just miss feeling connected to my roots and my past during the holidays.

Six Months Already?! And the Return of She Wrote, He Wrote!

She Wrote, He Wrote is back! And just in time for Veronica's six month birthday!

 

*If you're not familiar with She Wrote, He Wrote, it's a blog that Greg and I created in 2008. Organized into a he said, she said format, we both write about the same experience, usually from very different perspectives. We took a hiatus from it for a while, but have decided to start it up again. I'll announce new posts here as they go up.

Enjoy!

And happy birthday Veronica!

Updates

A couple of things.

First of all, you can now reach this blog using www.lifeinchicagoblog.com. Look at that. A real url. The typepad one still works but the new one is a bit more professional, or something. It's funny, I feel like I've come a long way. When I first started blogging 6 years ago the url for the original Life in LA was blogs.salon.com/0002608. That blog is still up, in case you're curious.

Second of all, The Nervous Breakdown has launched a beautiful new redesign of their site. Greg is one of the new nonfiction editors, which is exciting. In case you didn't know, this is the website Greg and I both met through two and a half years ago. We were both writing for TNB...and then we started writing to each other.

Here's a video of me reading one of my favorite pieces at a TNB reading in Chicago a couple of months ago. You can see one of Greg here.

Autumn

Friday Morning Worries

Dear Bug,

If something were ever to happen to me, this is the letter I would most want you to read.

I think a lot about what it would be like for you to grow up without me, your mother. I suppose it has a lot to do with my having lost my own mother and the fact that I constantly fret about my own mortality. Well, actually I go back and forth between incredibly serene moments of understanding about the ebbs and flows of life and death and then extreme anxiety about having to leave this world before I'm ready. And your presence my dear, makes me feel like I'm not ready.

There are so many things I want you to know, so many things I could say. I could write you a letter every day for the rest of my life and probably not say it all. Nonetheless, there are a few choice things I would definitely want you to know if I weren't around.

I think a lot about how, if I were to die now, you wouldn't remember me. You would have no memories of our sweet, little relationship. I think about how that's true for the next three or four years. That in order for you to remember your mother I have to stay alive for several more years. I do know that even if you didn't remember me I know that I would have still had an effect on the person you are. I take comfort in the fact that all the love I've given you, all the care I've provided will always make you that much more of a secure person.

But enough of all that. Here's what I want you to know.

I love you like I've never loved anyone. I love you in a way I didn't realize was possible. I love you in this profoundly transcendent way. This way that, even if I weren't here, you would still be surrounded by my love. It's a love so big that it's never going away. Not when you're 20, not when you're 47, not when you're in your seventies and a grandmother.

I want you to know that I'm always going to proud of you. Even if I were to die today, you can be certain that when you're making your first science fair project or running your first track meet or graduating high school or college or losing a tooth or skinny a knee or taking your first step or going to your first dance or getting engaged or having a baby, that I'm proud of you. Even if it seems like I couldn't possibly be proud of you because I'm not there, I just will be and you have to accept that.

Death is such a strange thing, little bug. It happens to all of us. And it can be so sad and so scary and so unwanted. But the truth of it is that because of death, life is important. Think about it for a moment. It's true. Death gives us meaning. It gives us goals and aspirations and makes us think about just how much we love one another.

I don't know why I think about it all the time. I guess because both of my parents died so early. And because I work in hospice (really need to get a new job next year). But I do. I think about how long I have to live this life. How long I have to love you. To love your father. To be a mother, a wife, a woman, a writer. I think about places I want to see and things that I want to taste and feel. I think about having more babies and I think about you, you, you and your life and all the things I want to see you do and taste and feel.

And all those things make me certain that I just couldn't bear to go yet. And then I think, well, if I did have to go, I'm so very grateful for what I've done and felt and tasted here in my 31 years. You and your father and my mother and father have the height of it all. There's just nothing more important than the people we love.

But I digress. It's a drizzly Friday morning in October. You're 4 and a half months old. You weigh sixteen pounds (my aching back reminds me of this often). You love to suck on your big right toe and you've been squealing and laughing more than ever this past week. You don't have too much hair but you have the prettiest blue eyes and the softest rose-colored lips. You're nursing as I type this and one hand continually brushes against my shoulder, pulling at my sweater and grazing my face. Your eyelashes cast soft shadows on your cheeks and your warm little body is flush against mine.

There is no way I could love you more than I do in this moment. And it's something that will last forever.

I'm certain of it. 

Love,

Mom