On stuff

A friend commented to me the other day that I seem to have a problem with stuff. I guess I say the word in such a way that, if you were transcribing my speech, you'd have to somehow mark that word, like Stuff, stuff, "stuff," or STUFF.

I'm really quite ambivalent about stuff, and that's related to the lifestyle I've adopted. On one hand, I like stuff. I like it a lot. I love having nice matching furniture and pretty pictures hanging on the walls. I like my houseplants and my books and my little teapot collection.


But on the other hand, my love of stuff bothers me, both because I feel it means I'm materialistic and because it's an unrealistic love to have when one up and moves every year or two or three.

About three years ago, in preparation for an international move, we purged the majority of our belongings. It was both exhilaratingly (is that a word? Firefox thinks not) freeing and deeply painful. A wise woman who had already been through moving away from and then back to the U.S. warned us that living overseas would change us. We'd come back and open the small number of boxes we'd lovingly packed and kept in storage, and we'd look at things and say, "Why'd we keep that?" And indeed, much of what we're getting rid of now is stuff we paid to keep in storage for two years. (And of course there were things we sold in a garage sale three years ago that I wish we'd kept.)

I'm surprised by what things are difficult to get rid of. For T, it is books. I can see on his face how excruciatingly painful it is to put even a single book in the "sell/give away" box. I have to keep him away from the box because each time he looks at it, he'll pull a few books out again. For me, the decision to try to sell our bird cage was enough to bring tears to my eyes. My teapot collection is extremely impractical for someone who moves as much as I do, but which teapots do I get rid of? The one that belonged to my grandmother? The one T bought for me in Morocco? The Brown Betty, the largest, most useful of the set? No, I still can't part with a single one.

But one way or another, room must be made. Baby S.'s car seat arrived today (thanks, Grandma and Grandpa S.!), and it is currently sitting (still in the box) inconveniently in the living room, large and ominous, warning of more stuff to come.

Away we go

Let me back up a little.

A few weeks ago, T and I enacted our own miniature version of the film Away We Go. In the movie, a young couple, Burt and Verona, finding themselves expecting a baby and having no reason to continue living where they are, visit several cities in North America to try to find the right place to raise their child.

We felt a bit like Burt and Verona as we boarded a plane to begin a trip that would take us to Kodiak, Alaska, but we also knew there were some significant differences between us and them. First of all, the movie couple--conveniently enough--both have jobs that they can easily perform long distance. They also appear to have no concerns whatsoever about health insurance or finding and paying for prenatal and delivery care for their baby. Because they don't need to look for jobs and have no obvious financial concerns, Burt and Verona are able to consider several cities as possible new homes.

T and I, on the other hand, were limited to places where at least he could get a job. He was invited to Kodiak for a job interview, and I tagged along so I could check out the town and decide if it might be the place for our growing family. While T sweated in his interview suit, I had one day to get a sense of Kodiak's people, landscape, and options for shopping, health care, housing, and my future career.

Near the end of Away We Go, Burt and Verona seem to realize that they've been looking too hard, and too far away from themselves, than they need to. Again, very conveniently, Verona happens to have access to the old house in which she grew up in Mississippi. When she returns to the house as an adult, bringing Burt with her, they realize it's the perfect place to raise their child.

T and I have no such luxury as a free-for-the-taking large family house surrounded by old oak trees and sitting on the water. But in some ways, I guess, our story is turning out a bit like Burt and Verona's. We have decided to relocate to Alaska (although we'll move a few months after the baby's born). T grew up in Alaska. He's never lived on Kodiak Island, but he did spend a good chunk of his childhood on another Alaskan island.

So maybe this time we will be--more than we have any other time--going home.

Maybe.

Why traveling with a pregnant lady can be annoying

It was pretty fun, but we're both walking mosquito bites now.

T and I went on another camping trip this weekend, this time to celebrate our 11th wedding anniversary. The drive to our destination was only about two hours, but it got me thinking about why traveling (and camping) with a pregnant lady might be annoying. And when I say "a pregnant lady," what I really mean is "me."

First of all, I'm forgetful these days. (Yes, even more so than usual.) This means you need to be prepared for me to run back inside the apartment two or three times to retrieve my water bottle, my purse, my cell phone, the grocery list, etc. Occasionally, you might drive a couple of blocks before I ask you to turn around because I forgot _____.

You must also be prepared for me to announce at any moment, "I'm hungry!" And I will need food immediately. (This may become one of the many reasons that I need to run back inside the apartment before we leave.) I am not doing this to be annoying. I'm doing it because I experience only two states related to hunger: 1) not hungry (a.k.a. "uncomfortably full"), and 2) suddenly very hungry.

Any time you see me take a sip of water, start looking for a rest area or gas station, because two or three minutes later, I will tell you I need a restroom...also immediately. Announcements of the need to pee can come at any time, regardless of how little time has passed since the last pit stop.

I will complain about the discomfort of sitting in the car, but I will probably also slow down any walking or hiking with complaints about a stitch in my side or constant comments about how tired I am.

When camping, I will wake you up every hour with my tossing and turning, complaints of congestion, and bathroom breaks.

Luckily for most of you, you are too far away from Maryland to worry about being trapped in a car or tent with me anytime in the next three months. At the least, though, perhaps this blog post has increased your respect for the infinitely tolerant and patient T, who put up with un-pregnant me for 10 years and has put up with pregnant me for several more months and continues to claim to want to keep on living and wandering with me and with the child who will (poor thing) be half me.

Happy anniversary, T.