Privacy

Binta pushed the bathroom door open, and with a puzzled look on her face, asked me, "Why did you close the door?"

Well, I had something going on in there that I didn't care to share with (or waft to) the rest of the house.

"I just wanted my privacy, now please close the door."

"Why?"

(every statement, command, or comment from me is always, without fail, followed by a "why.")

"I just do. Close it!"

Several hours later, I'm using the bathroom with the door in its usual open position. Binta follows me in, promptly closes the door, announcing, "This time, you get to have your private seat."

I Didn't Know Parenting Would be This Hard...

It all started when I asked Binta, several weeks ago, what she would like for Christmas. She immediately responded that she'd like a "Little Wermaid Kitchen" [sic]. I did a little research on the computer and quickly discovered the unflattering reviews left from some disgruntled consumers who pointed out how difficult the kitchen was to put together. Those who were able to successfully piece it together, were quick to mention what poor quality it was, how difficult it was to operate, and how several pieces had already cracked. I investigated the floor model at Toys R Us and confirmed that the grouchy reviewers were not just looking for something to gripe about - the floor model had already taken a bit of a beating.

I attempted to dig deeper, to find out just what it was that Binta really liked about the Little Mermaid Kitchen. Was it really the fact that it had a female half-fish character beaming from the stove top?

Of course it wasn't. When I clicked through some of the other photos available on the product, Binta became highly animated when this image appeared:

"See the eggs? It has eggs with it!" Just as I had suspected. Ariel, screw off.

I can find fake eggs for less than $69.99.

And I did. I found an entirely suitable substitute kitchen with play food (including fake fried eggs) for $49.99. And it looks to be of a stronger type of plastic that will not crack so easily.

Yesterday, as I dressed her in her red couduroy dress for her visit to Santa, I got a little smug and asked, "So, what are you going to tell Santa you want for Christmas?"

She responded, "A Sponge Bob Square Pants camera!"

Huh?

"What are you talking about? You said you wanted a Little Wermaid Kitchen!"

"Well I saw a Sponge Bob Square Pants camera on TV, and I want that so I can take pictures. I don't need eggs, anyway."

To be honest with you, I'm not sure if I was more disappointed that she had switched on me without notice, or that her new request involved (ack!) Sponge Bob.

Well, my research for this product revealed not only that the camera runs around $40.00, but that it is a digital camera recommended for kids 8 and older.

Hideous, isn't it?

So far, Binta has requested two items for Christmas, neither of which she has a chance of getting. But she's pretty sure she will, because she informed my mother of such this afternoon. Mom, being a quick thinker, used this opportunity to prepare Binta for the likely fact that she will not, in fact, be snapping Christmas photos with Bob this year. She did it gently and logically, explaining that just as Santa will not be bringing Nana a cane this year, because Nana's not yet old enough, nor will Santa be bringing Binta a Sponge Bob Square Pants camera this year, because she, too, is not old enough. Nicely done. Sounded good to me.

Binta, however, clearly crestfallen, retreated to her bedroom. Door closed.

Another pickle. Now what?

When Binta emerged, red-eyed and puffy, she mumbled something about how she's worried she's not going to get any toys for Christmas. The next 20 minutes involved tears, arguing, attempts to comfort and assure, attempts to redirect and distract, followed by a final strategy of "some kids don't get anything at all for Christmas." None of which were successful. Binta, usually the master Drama Queen, was not being dramatic at all. She was clearly heart-broken.

I quickly ran through some of my options: buy the damn camera, take back the kitchen, or plow through and "let this be one lesson, of many to come, that life is filled with disappointment."

Or, quickly pull out one of her littler toys I had reserved for her stocking, as evidence that she would, in fact, be getting toys for Christmas.

Ranking right up there as some of the hardest mothering minutes I've logged since taking her home from the hospital - I felt a few tears surfacing as she hugged me and thanked me for the $3.99 toy that she held in her hands - proof that happiness would prevail and she would receive toys this Christmas after all.

Recovery

Number of school days missed due to Thursday's windstorm: 1
Number of days remaining before Winter Break: 2 (if the power's restored)
In the Attic: Recovering from The Move, Conferences/Report Cards, Holiday Preparations, etc.

I'm way past due for getting a new post out to you. I am very sorry for each time you logged in to check The Attic, and found the same old, wilting post glowering back at you. The busyness of the past month has interfered with so many of my routines, including our attendance at the gym. I experienced a particularly strong surge of guilt last night, when Binta asked, "How come we never go to the gym anymore?"

But with only two more school days to go before my two weeks off, I'm ready to bring my regular taking-care-of-myself routines back into my life. So today's post will be a little journey back into what's been going on the past month. Hang on.

Chapter 1: Getting OUT
Upon soliciting a few friends for moving support, I decided to release them from the misery of spending a day with me, sweating and lifting. I had only found a few willing volunteers, (thanks, guys) and none of them were available on the same day. After considering the "big items" that I'd definitely need a second person's assistance with, I decided that I could hire a moving company to lift and move the large and particularly heavy items for me. It would only be a few things, and would only take them minutes to load them into their large truck. I would move the remaining things myself, one carload at a time.

I am so stupid.

One would think that a person like myself, with the Black Belt of "Moving" Resumes (13 moves in as many years), would have some sense as to developing reasonable estimates regarding time, number of boxes, number of truckloads, etc. Wrong. I am clearly retarded in this area. Not only were my estimates on how long it would take way off, but my estimate of how many "big things" I had was ridiculously low. I suddenly saw the light, five days before my moving date, when the moving company sent me some correspondence telling me how pleased they were to be helping me with my upcoming move. They also included a few fine print details, including the fact that they get to charge me for the time it takes them to get from their site to my house and back again after the move was complete. Suddenly, I realized I could not afford their assistance.

Fortunately, around this same time, I got a phone call from my ex-husband. He was in town for the weekend. I couldn't think of anyone else who better deserved the honor of hauling my crap around for the day. To his credit, he was very helpful and nice. And to my credit, I was very appreciative. We got most of the apartment emptied out that Saturday.

The remaining items, I decided to save for the next day. My mom and stepdad were very helpful. The problem with the Sunday move was the weather. It was not just rain, but torrential rain. I followed the truck, watching the blue tarp fight with the wind and rain. Suddenly, a big gust ripped one half of the tarp loose. My stepdad and I hurried around the truck, grabbing at the tarp and the ropes, and tried frantically to re-cover the pieces of furniture underneath.

You know those movies where the guy is pleading his undying love to the girl, and he's standing out in the rain and the water is so ridiculously strong that it's running down his face and dripping off his nose and chin, and it would be a really romantic moment, but you can't digest that part of the story because your brain is constantly telling you how unrealistic that much rain is?

It was that kind of rain.

After about 3 minutes of fastening down the tarp, I got back into the car to find that my hair was completely saturated and my sweatshirt was totally soaked. I never want to move again.

Chapter 2: Getting IN
Just having all of my belongings in one location was truly an exciting landmark. But that joy was not to last, as I then started the process of scurrying around, pulling boxes open, looking for specific items: lightbulbs, remote controls, towels. Again, my glowing resume concealing the fact that I not only suck at estimating, but also at packing. Starting off with great intentions, the first several boxes containing like items, packed very logically and carefully. The latter 75% of boxes looking like someone had just scooped up various piles of crap and dumped them into the nearest box. Which is unfortunately, a pretty accurate description of my packing. One box contained such items as a keychain, a measuring cup, and some of Binta's artwork.

Another challenge with relocating is working with the new space you have and the former spaces you have given up. I've purchased many pieces of furniture, mostly of the storage variety, to help me deal with where to put all of the stuff, and I have several more pieces to purchase later on down the road.

To date, I have put so many pieces of new furniture together, that the direction sheets had only had text, I could consider them my reading for the month. Instead, they have sketches and very abstract-looking human figures with either pleasant or distressed expressions on their faces, encouraging you to do or avoid certain behaviors as you construct the piece.

My face looked pretty distressed during most of the construction, and the guy in the pictures didn't have blisters like my hands did.

Chapter 3: Getting CLOSURE
Another landmark of closure was getting the former residence cleaned up. This process, for whatever sick reason, I've always enjoyed with all of my moves. Not so much the cleaning of the bathtub and the oven, but mostly taking the vacuum over every square foot of carpet and seeing the place completely empty. I often find myself drifting back to the first moment I had seen the place, before I had moved in, when I was thinking, "This will be a great place to live!"

I began to recall many significant events during my stay, including the day that I had come home to find the water heater had leaked all over the floor, causing a squish squash noise with every footstep. Binta had said, when we walked in, "Who peed in here?" She had been potty training at the time, and had a lot of familiarity with wet carpets.

I remembered when I discovered Binta had gotten a hold of the nail polish and had decorated the wall and TV table with lavender and pink rose.

I remembered spending an entire day watching the first season of Lost, while Binta was with her dad.

Mostly I remembered not being really thrilled to be living there and how happy I was to be leaving.

Chapter 4: Moving ON
If moving simply involved packing up all of your things and moving them to the new location, I could entertain the idea of moving about once a month. But the thing that really pushes me over the edge, is the phone calls and address updating. The act of establishing new accounts, or transferring existing ones to your new location, absolutely exhausts me. Perhaps it's because I really don't care to talk on the phone with people I don't know. Whatever the case, I have one remaining call on my list to make. If I could do my calling on Saturday, that would help quite a bit. As it has been, I've made a majority of my calls from my car, on my way to or from work. I never want to move again.

And all during this, I accomplished writing 21 report cards, conducting 20 parent-teacher conferences, and started some holiday decorating and shopping.

But, as Binta pointed out, we "never go to the gym anymore."