Time Keeps On Tickin' Tickin' Tickin'...

Space is not the "final frontier", it is time.

Whenever I participate in one of those exercises where I have to introduce myself to new colleagues or students and I'm asked to say something that people can visualize about me, I always take this route...

Imagine a balloon, tied to my shirt collar, bouncing about 18 inches above my head. Except, it's not just a balloon bouncing around, it's a clock balloon--but it works and ticks. A clock that is always on, always ticking, always with me. I can't untie the balloon and release it, so the clock never releases me. If you understand this and what it means, you'll understand me.

I count the minutes until I pick up my kids from school, go to the next meeting, take the casserole out of the oven.

I count the hours until I see my husband, put on my pajamas, or see a friend.

I count the days until a bill is due, a report is needed, or my volunteer work is complete.

I search for the hidden minutes when I can call the dry cleaner, take care of insurance paperwork, reply to a teacher, or schedule time with the veterinarian. It is difficult to explain that I love my life and live by the clock. Most people think that would equate misery, it does not. What it requires is focus and commitment.

I am capable of extreme focus and am frighteningly committed to providing my children a patterned existence with predictability. Child development research backs this strategy up and I've seen the positive impact it has on kids, so this is my M.O. My husband was in the military, so this life we've built works really well for all of us, it revolves around logistics...and time. We leave at the same time every morning, we eat dinner together, we grocery shop on Friday nights together, and we do chores on Saturdays--together.

Sometimes I wonder if this regularity and clock-oriented existence is partially related to living in an urban environment. Urban parents seem extremely tuned into their kids, as it tends to be more challenging to practice "free-range parenting" (which is a concept I love in spirit) when there could be a drive-by shooting at any time in any neighborhood. But whenever I say that in a mixed crowd, the other parents immediately shoot a look at me and say "No, it's that way everywhere." Okay. Maybe it's modern parenting. Who knows. I have no empirical data on it, either way, and I'm not interested in debate.

What I do know is that the clock over my head isn't always controlled by me--something that self-help experts cannot seem to embrace--this bugs me a little. I don't set the time my kids start school, I cannot change the fact that their schools do not bus in my neighborhood, and I won't ignore my kids or myself needing physical therapy or new glasses or a hair cut. The best part about being a grown-up is making my own life, the worst part is not always having a choice within that life. And no, I am not one of those people who claims "we always have a choice". Life is not that black and white. I  believe there are consequences to all we do--and choose not to do.

So the bouncing clock balloon keeps ticking and following me.

I have little time for me, our house repairs aren't finished, and my home business is on auto-pilot. I can do all that when I retire. For now,  I want to raise resilient, empathetic, and caring kids; enjoy my amazing marriage; save money for retirement; and nurture my career (for happiness and security). Some people get that, others won't. That's okay.

 
Tim gets it.

V is for Vecinos

If you've read my early blog posts, you know it was a rough start to our life in this bungalow. Bungalow Barbie dreamed up a few scenarios where she escaped from the NW side! (even consulted with a realtor! Shhhhh!).  And who in their right mind would not have had second thoughts? Major deferred maintenance (cockroaches, grease on the kitchen walls, falling ceiling pieces) no central AC, a foreign neighborhood, plaster walls (what is that!?!?), gang bangers, street noise, water in the basement...etc. etc. etc.

At the risk of seeming like Captain Obvious, it took many deep breaths to get through that first year. And once we got through that first year, we had more hurdles tossed our way...we lost our first huskie rescue, Zoe, to an unforeseen/unanticipated breed-specific condition; we were dragged into a frivolous lawsuit that has forever changed our family; and, with trepidation, we opened our home to a few people who needed a safe place to land and re-group.

But the story I tell today is not about the window replacements or the new roof/sidewalk/kitchen plumbing. It's not about Permaseal or our general contractor/new BFF.

The story I am compelled to share is one that leads us to the toughest decision of our marriage, thus far. Do we stay or do we go?

In the past 4+ years, we have rebuilt and "warmed" a home for two children who desperately needed a safe, welcoming, peaceful home-base. In that time we have learned the meaning of the word "neighbor" in ways that we've never experienced or imagined.
We've participated in a neighborhood watch that has driven out the gang bangers/dealers/drug houses and welcomed 2 new gyms and people roller blading...wth!?!!? Block parties, food passed over fences, all night pork roasts, church revivals...Vecinos...

This home has come to be the greatest new marriage team builder known to man! My husband and I will celebrate our 5th wedding anniversary in January, and I can honestly say that he and I are the best decision-making team I've ever known. Ever. We are best friends but more importantly, we share a vision and ideas that work. The kids see it, friends and family see it. It's a power like I've never known before. Together we have weathered more in 5 years than some people see in a lifetime.

Today, the home is far from complete, but it's loved--a symbol of love, commitment and safety. The kids love it, the dogs love it, the cat loves it.  It's been loved by friends, family, borders, neighbors, besties, etc. etc. The community we have built in the neighborhood feels natural to me, despite my own language not being the first language of the block and the ability to pass salt to your neighbor while they are in THEIR house eating dinner!  We celebrate, entertain, rest and laugh a lot in this home. I've even adapted to no central AC!

And now, the rub that we did not see coming.  Our oldest is 3 years from starting high school and our local high school will not cut it. We are not willing to risk interrupting her burgeoning brilliance yet we cannot afford private school. So, while we line up the stars for selective enrollment high school in Chicago, and pray a little, we consider relocating to a neighboring suburb. And to my own shock--I don't really want to move. Not yet.

Yes. I want a bigger yard. And I want more peace. And I want less crime. Of course. But if we leave, we give up our loving, protective neighbors. We give up our car pool mom-friends. We give up the businesses we've adopted and the haunts we frequent. And while, logically, I know all of these can be replaced, sentimentally, I do not want to leave them. Community is what's going wrong in so many parts of the world today, so I want mine. I want to keep it. I want to protect it.

What will happen now is a waiting game. Can we find a good high school situation in the city? I hope so. I really do. I can't believe I just said that...

Anthropomorphism of a Bungalow

I am "un-decorating" the Bungalow today. Taking down and packing away the holiday decor that has graced it's walls, floors, mantel and window sills for the past 6 weeks. As I do this, and sip my coffee, I reflect on why we decorate and adorn our homes, especially my new Bungalow.

My new home, my bungalow, has been a stranger in my life since we closed on it, late last summer. I didn't trust it, didn't feel at ease in it, had a hard time seeing how it was going to relate to me or serve my family.

I had "buyers" remorse for a while after moving into it. It could have been part of the moving process. Moving a family of 4 during the dog days of a humid Chicago summer is no picnic. Perhaps it was trying to assimilate into this new space while navigating a new/old job that was increasingly sucking the life out of me. And then there is was the challenge getting my children at ease in their new home and neighborhood while still learning to live in their "mom's house"/"dad's house" world. It all stung a little.

We painted, repaired, carpeted and hung curtains. We adjusted furniture, set up new living patterns and created livable space. We turned a frightening, tore up yard into a little urban oasis with a cedar swing set, flowers, grass and a tall, safe fence. But I was still floating, still suspicious. Nothing was easing my anxiety. Not the lovely neighbors who invited us over for dinner, not the welcome visit from the Alderman's office, not even the sound of children playing at the playground across the street.

So I wrapped the ornaments, deconstructed the train tracks under the tree and then popped out to the front stoop to retrieve the silly, snowman wreath when I turned to go back inside the house and for the first time, I saw it. I saw my homes' face. I saw my house looking at me. In the process of learning how to live in it, fixing it...my house became my home.

I come from a family who celebrate holidays and life markers to fullest extent. I've even referred to my family as "militant" holidays supporters. So we decorate, cook special meals and take time to mark occasions, big and small. The past 6 weeks our home reflected our family photos, our memories in the form of handmade ornaments, our familiar patterns in the forms of meals cooking and candles lit. We hosted a party and repeated long traditions. And now I understand why.

These things are all part of a formula, a subtle yet powerful formula that transforms ordinary space into a very personal component of our lives. Our house, our 1922 Bungalow, came to life for me--finally. I see it now, and am not afraid anymore. My husband and I will make plans in it and for it. My children will seek safety and comfort within it. Our memories will grow and enrich it. I will forever know that during a very cold winter of 2010, our Bungalow became another member of our family. Our home.

Before & After Bitches: The Living & Dining Rooms

I know, I know. I am not supposed to hate anyone...but I hate the former owners of our bungalow. That's right--HATE.

What kind of person paints original crown molding with a paint that closely resembles baby diaper (filler) green?? What kind of person grinds chewing gum into a hard wood floor? What kind of person lets stain glass windows get so filthy that they end up looking forest green instead of lime???

Hate people. I mean, really?

When you rehab a home, or give it a "hug" as my husband Adam refers to what we are going to our bungalow, you have to address the years of neglect that your home suffered at the hands of it's previous owners. And, it becomes PERSONAL.

I suppose the argument could be made about privilege and resources and time and money but do you know what I say to that? POO POO! They sell bleach at the dollar store! Clean up and take care of your shit people!

So here we were, dismantling holiday decor in our living room and we thought this may be a good time to show you some "before" and "after" photos from our city bungalow! While you are reading this, we are deep into a new, major project which we will reveal next month! Enjoy and feedback is welcome!

(Next up: the basement and back sun room!)

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