Home at last

Friends, our move is complete. We are mostly unpacked.

And Charlie the Dog is exhausted.

But oh! We love our new place! It's everything we wanted. Henry has declared that he wants to live here for the rest of his life. I'm not going to hold him to that, but I appreciate the sentiment.

Right now Henry is home sick with a swollen eye and a sore throat, listening to a "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" audiobook on my computer. Typing while listening to his audiobook with him is more challenging than it sounds. Turns out I can't listen and think at the same time. I'd give him my headphones, but I can't find my headphones. I'm sure they're around here somewhere. And at some point I will get up to look for them.

Four days!

Mrs. Kennedy and I completed the final edit to our manuscript yesterday. And that, my friends, was an alarming amount of work. My eyes and hands ache, and my brain-parts are wrung dry. Scott was helping me punch up some of the jokes, and at some point over the weekend he barked, “DID YOU HAVE TO PUT IN SO MANY WORDS?” I knew how he felt.

I actually at one point thought we could move on the same day the manuscript was due, because after all the edits weren’t all that much, and if we just improved some of the humor here and there, and added in the images, how much work could that be? I could just finish it up while I took breaks from packing! BAH HAAAAAAaaaarh. That is me wheeze-laughing as I take another swig from the dusty bottle of Kahlua I found at the back of our pantry. Kahlua plus working straight through the night makes me feel like I’m in college again!

Fortunately Scott corrected me when I insisted we could move over the weekend, and instead we are moving this Friday. Which still seems too soon, right now, because I need to sleep for at least a week. On the other hand it can’t come quickly enough, because even as I write this my neighbors are outside on the stoop, playing Who Can Smoke the Most Cigarettes While Yelling the Loudest? Hold me.

Big changes

We’re moving in twelve days. Ish. We’re moving in twelve-ish days. Also? The final, final, finally-final edit of our book is due in fourteen days. (No “ish,” there. Fourteen days. Two weeks from today.) Those are two very big things that I am doing in two weeks. So.

This final book edit includes all the art that will be in the book, which includes not only the excellent illustrations by our devastatingly talented illustrator (as well as additional images by a multi-talented blogger you may be familiar with, and if you’re not, you should be) but also all the public-domain clip art and photos we’re relying on because 1) illustrations are expensive (if worth it!) and 2) did you know that the authors have to pay the illustrator out of their advance? Or their trust funds? Whichever? The things you learn!

So I'm a little busy. It’s a good thing I have these beta blockers to abuse, I’ll tell you what. Plus fistfuls of Xanax. I am so goddamn mellow.

Let’s talk about our apartment, shall we? We got an apartment. I’m really excited. It’s the only apartment on the third and top-most floor, which means there shall be no one above us to stomp around and/or murder each other. (Of course some pigeons might engage in a final showdown up there. As they do.) No one will even be walking past our door. And if anyone approaches our floor, we have permission to kill them. (I think. I have to check the lease.) Also, once it is built and barring any acts of God etc. we will have a roof deck. Roof. Deck. All to ourselves. Party at our place!

The place is sunny and high-ceilinged and has many other fine attributes, such as a washer/dryer (every apartment dweller in New York just got woozy when they read that), and Henry loves his new room. It's going to be great. In the meantime, though, we have to move, which is unfortunate. Who wants to help us pack? We’ll supply the boxes and packing tape. Where are you going?

The good news is that we’ve seriously streamlined since last year’s move, when we owned a quirky and vast collection of teapots and numerous vintage suitcases filled with tortured diaries and, oh, an an entire basement crammed floor to ceiling with baby items. I’ve discovered that I enjoy nothing more than getting rid of stuff. I am the anti-hoarder. There should be a reality show about people like me. “Squanderers.” “Throwers-away.” You can watch me stacking gravy boats on the curb with a sign that says “FREE! GET IT OUT OF HERE! FREE!” while Scott pleads with me to keep at least one, for God’s sake, surely at some point we will use gravy on something. Get on that, television executives.

Adjusting

"I don't ever want to go outside again," he yells at me. It's a gorgeous day, and we've got a playground within shouting distance of our building. He can hear the kids laughing and screaming out there. All those kids, friends with each other, none of them friends with him. I know it seems that way. "We've got to get out there if we want to meet new people," I insist.

At the playground, he hands me a light saber. "Why don't we find another kid to play with?" I suggest. Mommy is old, and tired of playing Star Wars. The place is crawling with kids, after all. Many of whom are eyeing our light sabers with great interest.

Henry shakes his head. "I only play with my family," he insists. But he's watching an older boy, a charismatic type being chased by a young girl, possibly his sister. I can see the mechanisms whirring. Willing to play with younger kids. Likes to be chased. I like to chase. "I'm going to ask him to play," he whispers to me, but just as he approaches, the kid takes off abruptly with his dad. It looks to me like they're just taking a restroom break, but even after they return a few minutes later, Henry never tries again.

It's hard to make friends. You want to rush things. In a way, I'm jealous of Henry. I miss the days when you met someone and because you both liked the same things (Barbie? Swings? Creative nonfiction?) you were instant friends. All it will take for him to make a playground friend is eye contact with one kid, just one, someone to run around with. But he keeps his eyes on me. I want to tell him he doesn't know how easy he has it. As if that would work.

So I take matters into my own hands. There's a boy who seems to be around Henry's age playing near us. "Are those Ben-10 sneakers?" I inquire, and the boy nods and starts to list his favorite Ben-10 characters. Henry rolls his eyes violently. "I already know about that," he says, and takes off down the slide. The boy and I watch him, and we shrug at each other. Kids. What can you do. Meanwhile, Henry is eyeing a group of boys playing ball with each other. Boys who are way too busy doing their thing to notice the straggler in their midst. Oh, Henry. But of course I do the same thing. Why does this person want to be my friend so badly? Is there something wrong with her? On the other hand, what's that group of cool-looking parents over there, and how can I talk to them? I can't. God, I'm lame.

It's hard. I know it will get easier. But I still hate this part.