in NYC.

It is strange to walk into a never-before-seen apartment and realize that it is now home. I was stunned at first, because it didn’t fit my pre-conceived ideas of what it would be like, but it’s grown on me and I’ve begun to mentally arrange furniture (which won’t arrive for another week).

It is strange to be married again in that most basic of ways. I now live with my husband, and my son, and we are a team again. It’s really lovely, but it takes some getting used to.

It is strange to be working in Manhattan again. Coming to work on the subway feels so familiar, and comfortable… and then that familiar feeling seems strange, given I haven’t done it regularly in more than 3 years.

It is strange to take my boy to a new day care, and leave him with caregivers I’ve never met before. He seemed to enjoy it, though — especially the very friendly kids — and didn’t bat an eye when we left for work.

It is strange, and yet a blessing, to start life over again this way. As much as I’ve cried — and I’ve cried plenty — about leaving our previous life behind, there’s so much promise here as we begin afresh.

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UPDATE: Oooh, boy, things here can be difficult, and physical. Or maybe it’s just life with a 2.5-year-old in general. I went to pick him up last night from his day care, and he wouldn’t get in his stroller, and he wouldn’t follow me. He kept wandering off (the distractions of NYC are legion), and doing annoying things like picking up random items from the sidewalk.The only thing that seemed to work: carrying him on my shoulders. So imagine me, more than 200 pounds and 4 months pregnant, carrying a 35+ pound toddler on my shoulders and pushing a stroller into which I’ve put my laptop bag. It’s freezing outside, so we’re both wearing heavy coats, and I have to worry about his warmth, along with everything else. Much heavy breathing ensued. And the way home is slightly downhill…

On the way back to the day care this morning, also by myself (well, with the boy), I started to get into a groove pushing the stroller, in which he was sitting. I realized how much pure muscle and aerobic energy it takes. I’m going to get in better shape, for sure, but I need to take it easy as I gear up, too. Even more important — developing the mental dexterity to keep a 2.5 year old content as we go through such major upheaval. Wish me luck.

I grew a little sentimental last night, when I realized it was the last night that the boy and I would spend together, alone. As I write, my husband is flying in our direction, to begin the manic week of packing and preparing that will culimnate next Friday. That night, we’ll hop a Virgin America flight eastward, and wake up in NYC.

As excited as I am about having the family together again, I’ve also been conscious of the lovely, intense mommy/boy bonding I’ve experienced this last year or so. He’s been my buddy, my dinner companion, my cuddle-monster. And I haven’t had to share him with anyone, most of the time. Just this past week, when he was sick, I let him sleep in bed with me, and the night saw us in all sorts of positions — my belly as pillow, my inner-elbow as pillow, and my face as pillow — some of which were more comfortable than others.

While I know that the upcoming changes won’t bring an abrupt end to that closeness, it’s still nice for me to realize how thankful I am for my relationship with my boy — especially when most of my energy has gone to complaining about how hard it has been. And it has been very hard. I was reminded of that this morning, when he grabbed an elastic bit of my fleece jacket, and didn’t let go until the elastic was pulled nearly to its breaking point. He let go, and it snapped back hard and hit my hand, drawing blood. Oh, boy. Yes, I’m sentimental about the end of this single-parenting thing, but not overly sentimental.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about eating, and health, and exercise, and I’ve come to a real revelation in my way of thinking. It’s a pretty simple idea. What it comes down to is: love myself. Because, though so many of the typical diet behaviors are ostensibly aimed at making one feel better, look better, etc., they also often come from a place of evil self-hatred and self-destruction. Thankfully, I think I’ve figured out some great behaviors that are equally helpful, but which come from a place of love. (The trick, now, is to actually do them.)

Here’s a handy-dandy list to explain what I’m talking about:

• Hatred = Eating fake over-processed food (fat-free cream cheese or artificial sweetners come to mind). Love = Eating smaller quantities of the really good stuff (brown sugar, heavy cream).
  
• Hatred = Taking pills (Alli) that keep you from digesting fat, but also keep you from processing vitamins. Love = Taking your vitamins.
  
• Hatred = Avoiding bananas, avocadoes, potatoes, etc. because they have “too many calories.” Love = Eating a variety of fruits and vegetables every day, knowing they have nutritional value that trumps nearly anything else.
  
• Hatred = Beating yourself up when you over-indulge. Love = Accepting that, in a human life, there are ups and downs.
  
• Hatred (or not enough Love, anyway) = Eating whatever is available, all the time, because I don’t feel I’m worth the trouble to cook something healthy. Love = Making food daily from fresh, simple ingredients.
  
• Hatred = Getting down about barely fitting into airplane seats on a recent trip. Love = ?? I still haven’t figured out how to process that, exactly, except maybe to keep my chin up. Or become an activist and push for larger seats. In truth, I want to exercise and eat right so this doesn’t remain an issue.
  

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Meanwhile moving (and pregnancy) progresses. We are this close to booking a mover, and a car mover. We have a new place (can’t remember if I mentioned that bit). We found a day care (Halleluia!) for the boy that we like, and that actually has openings. We are setting things up for packing, and for fixing up the house a slight bit, before we go. We still need to set a date, and book flights, for actually leaving ourselves, but it is really coming along. I totally can’t wait, especially considering the new, regular chorus of “daddy, daddy!” that the boy sings out at regular intervals. He misses his daddy so much. So do I.

I can think of little else other than the fact that I am expecting a call from a genetic counselor, who will tell me whether the fetus has all the correct number of chromosomes. Aargh.

I called her at 11 to start the stalking process. Left a message. Then again at 1, when she said she usually heard from the lab. I talked to her, but she didn’t yet have results. She said that at 2 (15 minutes ago), she would call the lab and see if she could get a better estimate of when the results would be ready. No word from her yet.

All today, I’ve been thinking back to my first pregnancy, when I went through a similar waiting and stalking process, only to hear heartbreaking news. Needless to say, these memories are not comforting.

But then there was pregnancy 2, and the genetically normal little boy who now lights up our lives. In other positive thoughts, I saw a rainbow coming into work this morning, so surely good things will happen. Still, my stomach is churning and my heart is beating more quickly, just thinking about the phone ringing.

Should the news be good, we’ll be telling everyone — we’ve still told very few people — over the Thanksgiving weekend. I’ve got a work conference call at 3, so no doubt the phone will start ringing then. Send good vibes this way, please. And calm.

UPDATE: Finally, at 5:10 p.m., I made my last stalker call to her, after she’d said she’d have news “in the next 10 minutes” at around 4:20 p.m. The fax came in as we were on the phone. All the right numbers of chromosomes were present! Yippee!!!! And… it’s a BOY! I started bawling around halfway through receiving the news. Luckily, I was able to talk long enough to pass along the news to my husband. What a huge huge relief. Now I can tell my family!

Pretty busy at the moment but just wanted to check in and let you know all’s well — with me, with the pregnancy, and with moving — but things are really beginning to pick up steam. Therefore I haven’t had time to update here. We are planning to move in just a few short weeks and that has had the bulk of my attention. Well, that and dealing with a couple of health issues and nausea.

My eating and exercise have been pretty much on the back burner. Not terrible, but not perfect either — but it’s just going to be less-than-perfect for a while while I deal with the front-burner concerns.

I’ve been trying to come up with some way to describe how I’ve been feeling lately. The ones that seem to come close are: unstable, up-in-the-air, nauseous, and un-hinged. I feel like I’m grasping a piece of wood, floating in the middle of the ocean, trying desperately to hang on while the waves take me up and down, up and down. Yet, somehow — maybe because I’m floating in mother ocean — I am relatively at peace with everything. Except when I am not.

Here’s what I think about these days: I don’t know where I’ll be living in 2 months. (Hopefully, the answer to that mystery will become more clear this weekend, when hubby looks at rentals in a serious way. )Meanwhile, I’m muddling through the business of taking care of our very boisterous son, who seems to be becoming increasingly difficult, maybe partly due to his extended separation from his father. Then, there’s that other little responsibility, the life that is apparently growing inside me and causing lots of nausea — which I can’t talk about to anyone other than my husband (and you). So, I’m forced to go about my business with work, with my son, and with everyone I talk to, pretending to be just fine and normal…. when I feel anything but.

Eating is fine (=mostly healthy & nutritious), and I’ve just gotten back from a run/walk, so I’m trying to keep up the exercise, too. My little feedback note from TBT today actually told me I wasn’t eating enough. (A first!) Well, between nausea and the lingering effects of this cold (no smell = little taste), I’m just not that hungry these days. However, I did eat a pomegranate this morning. Very interesting.

Well, um… what a week. I think I am through it, except, of course, the everlasting repercussions of being pregnant, which I have totally not begun to come to terms with. Denial, it is my friend. At least the part of the time when I’m not avoiding alcohol and taking my daily pre-natal vitamin.

DietGirl seems to make a very timely point today, when she says the key to successfully making “lifestyle changes” is the ability to adapt. When to zig? When to zag? This week, for me, it’s been about getting over my illness and my son’s illness — his illness affects me tremendously when it comes to sleeping and/or getting up early, given that he has been spending most nights in bed with me. Can I slip out from under his head and disentangle his little hands and arms without waking him? Because once he’s awake, exercise (”me” time) is pretty much out of the question.

Meanwhile, we are still shooting for moving at the end of November. Of course, we don’t have a place to live; we don’t have a place for the boy to go to day care/pre school; and we are nowhere near to even beginning to pack. And, yet, there is that goal. Partly because I am completely sick of being apart from my husband. And I’m just ready to get it over with.

So, I don’t know if I mentioned my own illness (fever, cough, sneezing, etc.) this week. It kept me home from work — I worked from home — all week. And now, this weekend, my son has come down with the same thing. And I’m not yet over my case. So we’re quite a household. Two runny-nosed coughing individuals, wearing the most comfortable thing available and mostly sitting on our butts. Tissues are everywhere. I’m barely keeping the kitchen clean enough to avoid disaster. Eating is going a bit downhill but it’s not terrible.

And today, the capper on the whole strange intense week. I have pretty good reason to believe I’m pregnant. Yep. Totally hasn’t sunk in yet. I think we have to name it “N.”

P.S. Don’t tell anyone as this is very very early and obviously not public information.

For the first few years of our time together, N.’s place, at night, was with me in bed. He’d curl up between my legs, so regularly that I was conditioned to carefully lift my legs and reposition them around him when I flipped over from back to front, or vice versa. Now, that comfortable presence, once so close to me, is gone forever.

It seems he had internal bleeding after the surgery, and he just kept losing blood. I even gave permission for a cat blood transfusion, to no avail. I’m going through the regular stuff: anger at myself for taking him in for surgery; anger at the surgeon for somehow screwing up; anger at my family for not appreciating him enough. But, at the bottom, there’s deep sadness, and love, and a hint of acceptance. He was a good cat and I did the best I could to help heal him. But it just didn’t work.

Now, how do I tell my boy that we no longer have a kitty cat to taunt, to brush, to feed? I suppose, in some ways, it’s a blessing that he probably won’t understand. But it also depresses me that he doesn’t comprehend the significance of the passing of this family member. He’ll just blithely go about the business of demanding 100% of mommy’s attention, while mommy just wants to cry.

(I just went to get a tissue and started sobbing when I saw an unopened box of cat litter from a recent shopping trip. Who would have thought cat litter would get me emotional? And I can still hear his little cat fountain tinkling in the other room. I don’t have the heart to go pull the plug.)

Well, it’s late… 1:21 a.m. P.T. I’d better do something else for a little while, so I can try going to sleep soon.

Before I had the boy, there was the cat. We’ll call him N.

N. came into my life as a loudly mewling presence outside my window at around 2 a.m. I wasn’t going to go wandering behind my apartment complex at that hour, so I forced myself to go back to sleep. The next morning, I discovered my neighbor, a cat owner, had been adventurous enough to retrieve the pathetic little creature. The little orange tabby cat was pitiful, and covered with fleas, and could meow at the top of his lungs. I’d been thinking about getting a cat anyway, so when I discovered he was headed to the pound, for certain euthenasia (he was too young to adopt), I decided to take him in. Just a few weeks old, he’d apparently been abandoned by his mother (surely an inner city crackhead cat) and he would have died from his flea bites, I found out from the vet later.

Over those first few weeks, I had to come home from work every few hours and feed him cat formula with a bottle. I had a camping trip planned, so I took him along with me — I couldn’t leave him — and he slept with me in my tent. He was my baby…

Then he became my adolescent, and my adult (but always my baby), and he traveled with me from Houston, to New York, to California. He sat on my lap, slept with me at night, and comforted me when I needed it. Somewhere along there, my husband (allergic to cats) came into my life, and the boy (attention hog) came along. N. has been neglected far too much recently.

And now, he’s at the veterinarian’s office awaiting surgery, and I’ve been crying on and off. In part, it’s because I feel the burden of loving this cat is all on me, and I’ve been falling down on the job. My husband can’t pet him because he’s allergic, and my son is mostly jealous (and also scared) of him. But he’s a very loveable and sweet cat, and he’s going through such a hard time right now. I guess by writing about this, I’m hoping my vast Internet audience will send a little bit of love N.’s way. He needs it just now.

UPDATE: Just left N. at the emergency vet center. The first vet said he came through the operation fine, but they thought he should have overnight monitoring, so asked me to take him to the emergency pet place (where they have someone on duty 24 hours). When we arrived and they took his vitals, they said he was in shock; they couldn’t get a blood pressure reading; and his temperature was 10 degrees below what they would expect, even given his being post-operative. The prognosis was pretty shaky. This after the other place had led me to believe he was doing OK. I guess things changed…

Before, I left, though, I got to go in to say good night, and stroke his little head (between fits of bawling). The technician there said they were able to get a blood pressure reading and it was better, so things were looking a little up. Here’s hoping. It’s going to be a long night. Thanks for your kind thoughts, Mia and Shauna.