We moved into our new apartment at the end of March but I’ve yet to fully process the fact that we don’t live in our old one anymore; I didn’t realize this until we decided to leave but living there was the safest and most in control of my surroundings I think I’ve felt, like, ever. Pssshhheww. (That’s the sound of everyone’s minds blowing.) (Our technical first apartment was objectively terrible so for me at least the apartment we just left felt like my real first home without roommates (stressful) or family members (see: roommates) or, say, a company of marines.)

I loved our insanely cheap rent and I loved our fire escape and our bathroom tile and I loved the light in the living room and the pink siding and just. I really loved it. Plus I quit smoking, hopped on the SSRI train, got engaged, started therapy (then stopped but ugh I’ll finish it later), and finally started earning a living wage during the threeish years we lived there. I also figured out what a 401K actually is and started caring about things like credit and undereye cream. Also like created a human life or whatever but I don’t want to brag. #blessed but #humble you know?

Anyway I was good and attached to the life we built there so when Diego found a bigger place in the same neighborhood I wanted to be sadder about saying goodbye. But since it’s so close to our old place that my routines/commutes are exactly the same and because I work full time and have a bb Joe and a need to leave the house socially once in a (great big) while to avoid inward collapse, I haven’t been forced to make any big adjustments or think thoughts or name feelings so I just. Haven’t. And also, maybe I’m just not that sad about it. Maybe I’m like “Okay, any minute now I will be overcome by sadness” but then I’m like “No, me, I’m not. I’m fine.”

Here’s the thing about talking about it though, is that it’s a great thing to do instead of making a decision on a pattern of removable wallpaper for the corner of your new kitchen and then figuring out a way to cover up the ugly light fixture in there because you don’t feel like buying a new one. Also if you blog about it it’s a great excuse to post a few pictures of bb Joe’s nine-month birthday weekend and tell everyone how even though you do, in fact, understand how calendars work you still do not understand how it is possible that you have a daughter who is three-quarters of a year old. 

"How to explain the strange arc of parenthood to new mothers? 
... It's like you moved to a new country, and it's beautiful but there's a war going on. 
But then the war ends and you begin reconstructing yourself."

Meaghan O'Connell, "And Now We Have Everything"

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It's exactly like finding Narnia, I thought as I put the book down. You say that about everything, said the cat. Yes, I said, petting him. I do. We both looked at the baby monitor for a while in thoughtful silence.

It's neat how you can read minds and speak English, I told him. It's very Narnian of you.

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At a certain point in the weeks and months after childbirth it really felt like my time to be alone and drink hot tea and read books and scratch cats had come to an end. The idea of being the only human on any given piece of furniture was inconceivable; if anyone had told me a day would come where I could once again aimlessly wander home good stores, fit into underwear, and sleep for three consecutive hours without needing to see and touch and comfort the impossibly tiny creature that was and is my daughter I wouldn't have believed them.

Or maybe... was that one of the things that so many people told me so many times that it ceased to mean anything when I heard it? Either way. U-n-b-e-l-i-e-v-a-b-l-e.

And, either way, it turned out to be true.

Having a newborn was like discovering Narnia at the back of the wardrobe, no matter how bad of an attitude the cat has. (I hope Meaghan O'Connell doesn't mind me taking her 'new country' metaphor and making it nerdy. I feel like she wouldn't. I feel like it's fine. She'll let me know, she knows where to find me.) It was fucking magical. It was incredible to the point of being - I like this word today - unbelievable, and I was afraid that if I closed my eyes it would disappear. It was awesome in every sense of the word, which made it also terrifying and disorienting. And exhausting. And exhilarating. But mostly exhausting.

Et cetera, et cetera. Don't worry, I won't put you through this for too much longer.

In short: Right now feels like the part of "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" where Lucy and Mr. Tumnus are having tea in his cozy house. (Minus the creepy sleep flute. That's a very different metaphor. Make a note, we'll come back to it another day.) I know it's the very beginning of a much longer story, but it's just really nice to know for sure that it isn't all wandering around in enchanted snowstorms, you know?

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A Note, Definitely Not Part of the Blog Post: I wrote this OVER a month ago. Feels like I wanted to keep going, which explains why I found it still in drafts, but I don't feel like doing that now so.