Oh man. This month is from hell. It began with a tortuous move from the city to the suburbs. Our movers kept complaining about the stairs on our front stoop, as though negotiating stairs wasn’t part of the job description. You’d think we’d concealed the true location of our Manhattan apartment building, and instead led them to believe the job was in Iowa.
Then the sale of our old apartment was delayed indefinitely because our buyer neglected to wire funds from overseas. She apparently thought international wires were instantaneous, like text messages. Whoops.
After initially approving us for a mortgage, our new lenders became suddenly leery about extending credit. At the 11th hour they subjected me to a disturbingly thorough evaluation, culminating in an endoscopy.
Until our new house is habitable, we’re living in exile in an apartment complex down the road. The place is so small that our welcome mat just says Wel. And our “master” closet is so cramped there’s not room enough in there to change your mind.
Lately I’ve been crawling into bed around midnight. It seems my head barely hits the pillow before our two year-old wakes at dawn. Fox has always been on some rigid circadian schedule where he stirs at 5 a.m. I swear we’re raising him in the wrong time zone. Probably the only workable fix would be relocating to Reykjavík.
There’s more but I’ll spare you the full laundry list of administrative and logistical chaos. The result has been a debilitating exhaustion with only one precedent in my life’s experience.
It’s not the frenzied numbness one feels during exam week. At least then you can circle a date on the calendar when it’ll all be over. Nor is this the smug exhaustion you feel at work after a protracted night of seduction. Because, you know… sex.
This is the stumbling, zombified state associated with bringing a newborn home from the hospital. It’s a distinct tiredness, where life’s demands upend your priorities and force a domestic triage. Hygiene? Gone. I smell like a Caribbean baggage handler. Romance? B’bye. At least baggage handlers get laid.
Newborns pull you through a temporal wormhole and flush you out the other side, bleary and discombobulated. Like some sadistic Navy SEAL instructor, your baby rouses you with arbitrary demands at weird hours. Other new parent symptoms are consistent with acute altitude sickness; previously routine tasks suddenly require massive amounts of concentration and determination.
Those first weeks were such a fog that I’m almost grateful for the reminder. Annoyingly, we now have fewer offers of help. The stress of moving generates plenty of sympathy, but no one’s bringing us food and baby socks. And I’m having a hard time explaining why our apartment resembles downtown Mogadishu.
But things are looking up. My brother loaned me his fly-ass convertible until we line up a second car. Fox’s nanny Maria came back for four days because she missed him so much. Maria is a walking vacation. And for the past week, Fox has inexplicably slept in ‘til the ripe hour of 6:15.
We may not have to move to Reykjavík after all.