Cleaning up that nest

Ah, there is something so virtuous about (figuratively) rolling up my sleeves and cleaning. It may not work off the Ben & Jerry’s or beat a healthy heart pumping run but it got me off the couch and away from the TV. It’s Saturday. Really, what possibly could I be missing. 

M, the pup and me moved into a new-to-us house this year and the upgrade projects continue. We are now tackling the kitchen with a mini ie cheap makeover. First up is a clean coat of white paint for the cupboards and the dingy melamine needed a scrub. 

We started the house hunting process during the first pregnancy. Three (including pup) of us in a one bedroom condo was bearable in a cozy, newlywed way. But as a friend pointed out, a new baby would need to sleep in a dresser drawer thus triggering our house hunt. We signed the papers to sell the condo fairly soon after miscarriage #1. I was feeling hopeful that it was just bad luck and we would have our extended family soon, so it seemed logical to keep going and create that maybe forever family home.

I will never underestimate the emotional tie of your own home. I bought the condo 4-5 years ago, just before M came into my life. Quickly, the condo attracted interest and a mini bidding war. We got a good price giving us greater options than we thought for buying a house. I was crying though, signing over the papers. I didn’t realize just how much it meant to me. And to M. It was there we built our relationship and fell in love. He proposed to me in front of the couch. Now we uprooting with no new place to call home yet.

Probably after more than 100 house viewings and five competitive bids, we finally got our wee house. The housing market here is brutal and just cooling off. Each time we didn’t get a house, it was another blow and another worry. If I could throw out a helpful recommendation out to the world, don’t try to sell, buy and move just after a miscarriage. Too much. Plus a stressful job on top of it. And did I mention we had to live in M’s parents’ place for a month in between residences? Yeah.

It’s worth it now. Our 70 year old house needs work (the bathroom for example is done in 80’s sauna style and there is a huge tub with jet streams in the bedroom. Yep, basically at the foot of the bed). It’s ours though. With a yard, three bedrooms, stairs, a big kitchen and a sense of well worn and loved history. All worth it and ready for nesting.

Hanging out with the hormones on a Saturday night

Forget about me stalking. Hormones are stalking me today, and judging by the tears and just how low I feel today, they’ve found me, tied me up and are conducting some mind freak experiments on me. My period started today, the first since the miscarriage in May. Actually given just how irregular I am, the miscarriage must have kick started them back almost to normalcy. Two months timeframe is almost record breaking. I did wonder if this was coming because the hormones have been popping up their ugly, hyperactive heads on the last few days and giving me a painful nudge. A little “hi, feeling ok are you? huh? huh? screw that, we’re back…” And two pregnancy tests said no go.

I have some experience with less sunny side of life. You could say I have dabbled in depression, gotten down with feeling down. Today I feel especially emotionally tender, like a big walking bruise. It is hard for M, I know. The dark side is fairly foreign to his nature. But he knows me now, especially after this last year. He’s good about encouraging me to keep moving and I have learned that generally does a lot more for me than curling back to bed for the afternoon. So we went to the farmer’s market, had brunch and did a few home-decor related shopping.

A nice, easy going day to gently rev me up for tonight. It’s my friend’s stagette. C is a good friend, one who also ventured on the dark side too many times, and I wanted to be there for her and join the debaucherous fun. (Plus I can drink now, right?) Just as we found a frame store to re do a watercolour painted by my late Nana, I hit some kind of do-not-pass-go wall and burst into tears. I wanted home, my couch, my bed, my dog, something. This time, it was not gonna work to keep moving, or shopping, or sniffing the frigging flowers at the farmer’s market. 

Tonight, instead of learning to pole dance (boa optional), drinking cocktails and toasting my friend, I am embracing the cliche of emotionally wrought woman everywhere. It’s me, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, a couch, lame Saturday TV and maybe, if I feel like totally living the life, all while in some pjs. 

A couple of Sundays ago, I helped with C’s bridal shower. It was an effort, for various reasons, but I made a lemon-rose cake, put on a dress and even a slap of perfume and make-up, and helped to create a special party for her. It felt to be there with a job. You know, I had a role. I had busy hands that hid to a certain extent, a heavy heart. I felt like an imposter, or a pseudo Stepford wife with a fake smile going through hostess motions, without really feeling the part. It was an odd, disjointed feeling. I want to feel normal again.