I'm sorry to have gone incommunicado in recent weeks. I've been in fiction mode, making massive edits to my novel in progress.
The book follows three very different women. One is a well-to-do Boston lawyer who puts the brakes on her own career to support her husband's (he's a celebrated humanitarian/physician). Another is a young doctor who grew up in one of Boston's poor neighborhoods and who never had anything handed to her in life. The third is an African teenager the doctors hire to work in their Malawi clinic.
I've had their voices in my head over the past month (or so) to the extent that it's interfering with my actual, live friendships. Please don't write and suggest I seek psychiatric help. I know the characters aren't real. They're just loud and insistent.
I've also had schools on my mind, as regular readers know. Next week, or the week after, we should hear from the BPS lottery and from the private schools to which we applied for kindergarten. More on that in upcoming posts...
Today I've got other matters on my mind. Namely, is my (extremely recent) itch for space a middle age hormonal thing? A part of the natural aging process?
Or is it—somewhat ironically— a fear of social isolation? I was among the last of my good friends to procreate, and many of my daily accomplices in city life have already fled to the burbs with their broods.
Rational minds might agree that it seems counter intuitive to move to a less densely populated area to reboot our day to day social life.
Yet suddenly I find myself looking at houses on Redfin.
Not apartments. We've got one of those already, and it's lovely. We have a fantastic kitchen and private outdoor space and great condo neighbors.
I'm talking about houses with space to entertain, where every room isn't a minefield of toys. Houses located within the confines of solid public school systems where the Grape could attend a neighborhood school. Houses with trees and grass and pools and bathrooms. Horses and skiing hills nearby. And mudrooms.
If we leave the city, my first wish is to have a mudroom. I suspect R.'s is a fenced yard for Lila the Dog.
At moments like these, I remind myself that I hate driving and that the Grape is an only child. We aren't technically out of space, despite the fact that our apartment is basically one big playroom. We cannot afford to up-size within the city limits.
I'm sure it will pass. Probably. Maybe.
My fellow city slickers will grow less cranky with the spring thaw. Everything will be sunshine and daffodils in the park across the street. The Grape can run with his scooter gang once more.
And people will start cleaning up after their pets again. (I will never understand why so many people labor under the illusion that snow melts dog waste. It doesn't and you are not a good neighbor if you think it does.)
I sent R. a link to a house today. Subject line: Should we buy this?
Maybe my characters have hijacked my brain after all. Who is this woman?