Wendy Whiner

I know I am. I know I am petty, and shallow and worldly and probably very, very sinful into the bargain.

But I hate my new kitchen.

I also hate all the dark, heavy oak trim that's around every door and window in the house. Likewise the heavy dark oak chair rail in the dining room, kitchen and entryway. Also the heavy oak vanities in the bathrooms. And I really hate the white ceramic tile on the floor. Hate it all.

I should be thanking God for the space, thanking God for the reduced price which allows us to live there without going broke. Should be dancing a jig at the thought that I will finally have a closet large enough for all my clothes, on and off season. But I'm not.

I feel like all that I've worked to accomplish here, all the style and grace that it took me so long to infuse this house with is gone in an instant, replaced by a big ugly yurt of a place with absolutely no style at all.

And I know, because I've gone through this before, that I am going to have to fight for every little improvement. And I'm going to have to wage war for the not-so-little improvements. And I am already thinking, how long do I have to live here?

This is not good, when you haven't even moved in yet and you're looking for an escape clause.

Breathe In, Breathe Out

I was so wrong about finality quelling panic. The very finality of the finality induced more panic, but not until 4 a.m., which is when everyone wants to be awake sweating about the massive purchase they've just made and whether or not it was a wise decision.

It's been so long since I've had normal sleep rhythms. I take antihistimines to sleep at night, then drink tons of coffee to wake up in the morning. I either have to drink more coffee to stay awake in the afternoon or succumb to a nap. I am functioning only minimally -- I get the kids dressed and out the door and I am putting meals, however crappy, on the table, and the laundry is done for the week, but that's about it. No cleaning, no packing, no nothing that isn't absolutely critical for our immediate survival. Tim and I have hardly interacted the last month except to distribute child-related tasks or pow-wow about house projects before we take off in opposite directions to do them. I feel exhausted, isolated, mildly crazy and overwhelmed.

This morning at 4, I was lying on the couch downstairs and thinking, endlessly, about how I only have 2 more weeks before this isn't my house anymore -- not really, anyway. Oh sure, I'll still be paying for it but I won't have it wrapped around me like a giant security blanket. Everything about the new house is distorted in my mind, looming out of all proportion.

I have trouble eating, I am not sleeping well at all and I am not really enjoying the things I normally enjoy. Like eating and sleeping. I can't live like this much longer. Tim says that I have to just tell myself that I can't live like this and then STOP. Very handy if there's a little switch marked "FREAK OUT" that I can just turn on and off. I have to think, though, that my body will eventually give it up, that it will finally say "Oh...is this all? This isn't enough to get worked up about" and then I'll be able to roll over and go back to sleep at night.

Maybe, and I say this with as much hope as trepidation, maybe the anticipation is worse than the event. This is often the case with me, getting all het up about something that turns out to be much less heinous than it seemed in my imagination. I am hoping this falls under the same category. I guess I'll know in 2 weeks.

Welcome to Fiscal Irresponsibility

It's done. We now officially own 2 houses. Technically, Tim and I could begin living separately if we so chose. Sadly, it's not legal for us to leave the kids at one house while we go have a nice long soak in the tub at the other house.

Because that is wrong.

Last night I had what I hope will be my last meltdown. Now that it's a done deal, I am hoping my brain will recognize the essential futility of panicking over whether it's the right thing to do. Now I can panic about things like double mortgage payments and dual utilities.

You know, normal stuff.

After we signed the 42,000 sheets of paper that constitute our new loan agreement, our mortgage guy, Brad, said to us "I hope your new house is all that this house was for you and more." A nicer sentiment he couldn't have offered. What a mensch.

And this is what I want for us...that all we've felt about this house, the warmth and security, the layers of tradition and routine that define homelife, the glow of memory, that all of that will be ours in spades as we take this show on the road. And that, of course, makes it sound like we're moving 2,000 miles away, when in fact it's slightly less than 3 miles from our current home.

Do I tend to get worked up over nothing? You betcha.

Coming to Terms...

with the fact that this is going to be the Fall That Wasn't. We worked so hard to keep the yard leaf-free for showings, there wasn't time to play in the leaf piles. We worked so hard cleaning and taking stuff out of the house so it would show better that there wasn't time to go to the pumpkin farm. We have now pushed the move date back by 2 weeks so we can clean and paint at the new house, so Thanksgiving is really just going to be a blip in the endless continuum of home improvement work. We move the first weekend in December and will spend most of the month unpacking and figuring out what to do with stuff, so Christmas is looking like it's going to be a casualty as well.

I don't know how I'm going to complete any holiday shopping for nieces and nephews. This might be the year of the gift card....

All this is making me feel discombobulated -- just off kilter, like the whole universe has developed a nervous tic and I'm the only one who's noticed it.

Anatomy of a Panic Attack

First, your brain will not shut off. Thoughts swirl around in a miasma of negativity. Some of them are recriminatory, some are laced with fear, others are like endless lists of what ifs which always culminate in disaster.

Second, you feel like you can't breathe properly. Air is going in and out, but too quickly, while (paradoxically) you feel starved for oxygen. This is called hyperventhilating and it is about as fun as it sounds.

Third, the tiny part of your brain that is rational keeps chipping in with soothing, calming thoughts designed to stem the overwhelming sense of impending doom. These thoughts are largely ineffective, like shouting at a thunderstorm.

Fourth, you are seized with a frenetic energy. You must move; run, pace, wring your hands continually, whatever. Sitting still is not an option. Although you may be physically exhausted, this in no way mitigates the need to expend that energy. I find it is best to follow the "flight" impulse until it burns itself out.

Fifth, your husband, completely unable to help you with this, suggests you seek professional help.

Welcome to My Crazy, Part Deux

Final walk through on the new house tonight and it was miserably depressing. Came home and promptly had another massive panic attack.

What happened was this: we killed ourselves for 2 days cleaning and painting and otherwise spiffing this house up so we could hold an open house before we move next weekend. Very much work, very little sleep. Spent afternoon at the inlaws which wasn't bad, precisely, just a gross inhibition to sleeping, which was mainly what I wanted to do after two straight days of backbreaking work. Went to do the walk through and found that the new house, now empty, looked much shabbier, dirtier and generally unappealing than we remembered. Carpets were stained and walls were gouged and the whole place was vilely dusty and grimy. Without furniture to distract us, the cabinets seemed more worn and dated and it was obvious that the whole interior of the house needs to be painted. After weeks of working on this house, I went to the new house and was confronted by MORE WORK.

Small wonder, I guess, that I lost it for a bit.

That, married to my exhaustion and coupled with PMS, a case of pinkeye and a back that went out on Thursday, have left me feeling very very very low. But let me just whinge on a bit more about my big new house and how awful it is. What a twonk I am.

One tiny bright spot: a group of kids from the neighborhood saw the lights on and came over to meet us and find out if we had any kids. There was a little girl Abby Kate's age and a couple boys Grant's age. They were very friendly and seemed nice.

I am trying hard to remember that this move is not all about me.

Marry Someone Who Makes You Laugh

I am under the sink, rummaging for AA batteries to restore the dead TV remote so that Tim can work out and channel surf at the same time when he says this:

"You are so good to me. I don't know why; ninety percent of the time I'm throwing poo at you like a bad monkey."


Love love love that bad monkey.