Sunday, April 10, 2011

10,000 knives when all you need is a fork....

We're moving.

I packed all the cutlery, all the cookware, all the dishes, all the knives.

I figured we'd use the plastic stuff until we unpacked in two days. 

Then, I opened our Costco-box of plasticware and found two BAGS of knives, two spoons and a fork.

Tonight is Ella's last night in this apartment we call home. It's her last night sleeping in Redondo Beach because tomorrow night she will stay with Grandma, since we're taking the crib apart for the movers who are coming on Tuesday morning.

I am so looking forward to living in a house. I finished the shelf-papering today and put everything away so that the movers will have easy access to the spaces they will fill with our worldly goods. It is so much space. And, bonus, it is still just two blocks from the ocean. We're still on the west side of PCH. We'll be walking distance from coffee shops, grocery stores, bars and the library, just like we wanted. There's really nothing to miss here.

But I still feel sentimental.

This move marks the end of us living like starving college students. Justin and I have known each other for almost ten years. (We met on June 16, 2001, but that's another story.) For our almost nine-year marriage we have been living in apartments, with usually one income, and mostly just the two of us.

Then we had Ella.

In two days, we move into a house with a backyard and a (treadmill) pool and hot tub. In just over two months, Justin starts working as a doctor, an attending, not a resident, not a student but a genuine practitioner of medicine. We'll be able to grocery shop at a store, instead of the Commissary (cheaper food, less selection, no customer service, baggers who work for tips-only). We will be able to buy replacement socks when ours get holes. Ella can have (almost) anything she wants. Anything she needs. I won't have to keep explaining to people that Justin is a doctor, but he's a resident which means he doesn't get paid like a doctor--more like a teacher.

Yet, I wax sentimental.

I've been thinking a lot about our move from our Mira Mesa house (we did once rent a house--when I was working as a teacher, and he was a medical student) to Hillcrest.

I had asked Justin to hide the knives.

You see, when we moved from that house, we were moving from the house that had space for a baby's room to a small two-bedroom apartment, where Justin would have an office in which to study his third-year medical school information. We were moving from the house where we lived when I had my miscarriage. We were moving at a time when I was on disability because of my postpartum depression turned major depressive disorder.

I remember two things.

We were going to have a garage sale on the weekend, but during my outpatient Cognitive Behavioral Therapy group session I had talked (again) about suicide and they decided I should go inpatient for a while.

"But we're having a garage sale this weekend."

"That sounds like a stressful situation."

"But we're moving and I have to help with the packing."

And so it went.

Justin held the garage sale on his own; I hear a friend helped him. He had just taken a final, and one of his friends drove with him to the hospital so they could take my car home.

It was almost Easter.

I believe in the resurrection of the dead, and the life everlasting.

I remember being in the new apartment after our friends helped us move in--we were still U-Haul-ers then. Justin had to leave for something. He asked me if I would be OK. I said yes, I would be fine. I intended to stay on the couch and watch Netflix episodes of Law and Order: Criminal Intent while he was gone. But could he please hide the knives.

He did. I remember I built a little barricade to the kitchen, so that not only were the knives hidden, but also I would have to really think about it and try hard to get to them and accidentally use one to cut myself.

Crazy, isn't it?

Now, here I am, writing in the middle of the night while my baby sleeps in the next room. Moving from our tiny Redondo Beach apartment to a house in Seal Beach with a laundry room and an office and a room for my little girl.

It feels like it's all coming together and I am so in awe of it all.

I hardly know what to say, but, "Thank you."


Anonymous said...

Wow. Thanks for sharing. So poetic, the way you put it. You give me hope. And so happy for you and y'all. -A

Penny said...

You have come so far! This is the reason why the blog should continue to be Olaina After School. Leaving school is/was not the end of the world, but the beginning of a new/better one!