Actually, call me the Queen of Dumbasses

Those of you who read my last (now deleted) post know exactly what I mean.

All Hail the Queen!

Ch-ch-ch-changes

It's been quite a while since I posted from the House of Crazy, which doesn't mean I'm not still batshit whacko. Believe me, I am.

Much has happened since September, some of which might even be worth noting:

• Despite his initial stress about first grade, JJ has settled in and is loving school. I may be a tad biased, but I have to say that he is the most brilliant, adorable, compassionate first-grade boy in the entire world.

• The Peanut is still enjoying preschool, although her enthusiasm has waned considerably. She's all about JJ and has zero interest in cultivating relationships with children her own age. The only kids I've seen her play with are older boys, which isn't too surprising. But I'm hoping she'll come out of her shell in the coming months.

• Jack has been seriously considering taking a job in Portland. Which would be cool, except I really love our house and community and don't want to leave. But he'd have much better job security, and as we're teetering on the brink of global economic collapse, that seems like a precious commodity to us both.

• And speaking of economic disaster, I was "furloughed" from my job a couple of weeks ago. We're incredibly lucky not to depend on my income -- we'll miss it, but it won't break us -- but it was still a bummer. So now I'm trying to figure out what to do with my life. Do I look for another job? Or work on my novel and see if something else falls into my lap? Right now I'm leaning towards the latter option, but we shall see.

• My mother and I "had words" a few months ago and she informed me that she was going to "cut me out of her life." A couple of days later, she emailed Jack and said she had no idea what she'd done that had upset me, but he was her last and only family connection, and she was frantic to hear back from him about the kids. The whole situation is disturbing on many different levels, and I worry that she is really losing her mind. But I finally realized that responding to her craziness wasn't helpful to either of us, and I made the very painful decision to not respond to her at all. For now, anyway. I hope she can find peace and happiness; I love her so much.

• My sister emailed me! Just once, but at least I know she's out there.

And that's about all there is to it. Or at least all I can remember; I either have a permanent case of Mommy Brain or early-onset dementia.

From The Peanut Gallery: First day of preschool

On the car ride home, right before falling asleep: "I love preschool so much, I couldn't believe my ears."

Growing pains

JJ started first grade last week, and the tears that have been shed since then could fill an ocean.

I thought this transition would be easy. After all, he went through kindergarten at the same school, he knows every single kid in his class, and the drill isn't that much different.

But it is different. Very different.

The day is longer. The work is harder. The expectations are higher. Recess is on the (gulp) Big Kids Playground.

And Mommy isn't there.

JJ has always been very attached to me. One of my closest friends (and the mother of JJ's future bride) once quipped that if JJ could climb back into my womb, he'd do it without a second thought. Truer words have never been spoken.

One of the biggest tear triggers has been The Peanut's stroller. We walk to school almost every morning, and both kids happily skip most of the way there. But inevitably, The Peanut gets tired and climbs into the stroller…and then the tears begin to flow.

"I want to ride in the stroller," JJ sobbed this morning. "I wish I were still little."

"I know," I said. "Sometimes it's hard growing up, isn't it?"

"But JJ," The Peanut said helpfully, "soon I'll be too big for the stroller, too."

"But you're little now," he retorted. "I miss being little. I miss being with Mommy."

And that's the big issue, I think. Each morning when we drop him off, there's a piece of paper at each child's place. At the top is printed "Me and My Family." The point is to draw a picture of your family, and every other child has been working on his picture for days. JJ's paper is still blank. Well, not totally blank: there are faint traces of circles and lines, erased and redrawn many times. This morning I asked him about it. "Are you having a hard time with your picture?"

He burst into tears. "I hate it. I hate this picture."

"Why, honey? Why do you hate it?"

"I just do. I hate it. And I hate school."

I don't understand it, and he can't find the words to explain it to me. Possibly he doesn't understand it himself. But those words "I hate school" cut me to the quick. One of the gifts I've worked hardest to give my children is a love of learning new things. Is school going to kill that love? Or is this just a temporary blip?

Please tell me it's a blip.

Hello, Spring

In a past life, I studied hibernation in ground squirrels. I still find the process incredible: the squirrel literally drops its body temperature to ambient. Curled up in its burrow, it feels like a dead thing: cold, lifeless. Its heartbeat and breathing have slowed until they're nearly undetectable. Then Spring arrives, the squirrel warms up, and life begins again.

I think emerging from depression must be a bit like arousing from hibernation. You come partway out of your burrow, blinking sleepy eyes against the sun's glare. You look around, surprised: the world has gone on without you. The stark winter landscape is now burgeoning with new life: tender green shoots and leaves unfurling, blossoms shouting a riot of new color. Spring's heady perfume is overwhelming. Everything seems almost too alive.

Perhaps it's too much for you: you crawl back into the cold, dark safety of your own sadness. Or maybe you take a few tentative steps outside, welcoming the sun's rays on your pale skin. Don't rush yourself, it takes a while to get used to being alive again. Breathe in, breathe out. Feel the pounding of your heart. Stretch your cold muscles. Look for familiar landmarks, then venture forth.

Now you can start catching up on everything you've missed.

Science in action

We went for a walk this afternoon and passed a yard that was full of plastic spoons. A shitload of spoons, maybe 200 of them, handles stuck into the earth. I don't know if it's some new-fangled (or old-fashioned) aeration technique of which I've never heard, or if it's the work of a crazy person (I'm leaning toward the latter), but JJ and The Peanut thought it was the most amazing thing ever.

As soon as we came home, we planted our own little patch of plastic cutlery: we were out of plastic spoons, so we used forks instead. The kids have different hypotheses about what will happen. The Peanut predicts that the forks will grow to be gigantic, "as big as a MOUNTAIN!" JJ suspects that they won't grow, but they might fall over or get dirty or be chewed by critters. (We have a raccoon problem.)

"I can't wait to see what happens," one young scientist pronounced as he watered the forks. His colleague was more interested in practical applications: "I going to use my giant fork to eat a big, BIG pancake!"

Food, glorious food

For the first time since The Peanut was born, I feel pretty good. Not that I was completely miserable, but I was depressed. Not getting enough sleep for an entire year really took a toll on my body, mind, and soul, and I suspect that my postpartum/breastfeeding hormonal cocktail was doing me no favors.

Never one to let well enough alone, I've decided to do some more work on my fucked-up relationship with food. When I've written before about my struggles with eating and body image, it's been in the past tense. And it's true that I've worked through the most severe of my symptoms: I no longer starve myself, throw up, or exercise excessively. I don't count calories. I haven't weighed myself in more than six years.

But I'm still not happy with the way I eat or even think about food. I'd like to be more present in my life, and eating/not eating is one of the ways I avoid the world. I use food to comfort myself—and sometimes punish myself. I seldom eat mindfully: I either snatch bites here and there, or I binge. I binge when I'm unhappy, lonely, or nervous—whenever I don't want to face an uncomfortable situation or feeling. I also binge when I haven't eaten enough throughout the day and am suddenly starving.

I know it's unrealistic to think that I'll ever be completely free of my food issues, but I'd like to feel more comfortable with food. And so I called R., my psychiatrist/therapist/fairy godmother, for a few tune-up sessions. As always, R. has been helping me navigate through the sticky territory of my psyche while also offering practical suggestions. And one of her suggestions was to write about all of this. Which, for some reason, I find enormously difficult and painful. Maybe it's because for me, food has its own language—a language that doesn't translate easily into English.

But maybe finding the right words is a step in the right direction. If I can explain my feelings about food, perhaps those feelings will no longer have so much power over me.

It's worth a try, right?

Good-bye, Dee Dee

It's been a little more than a month since I nursed The Peanut for the last time. I've tried to write about it several times, but I've found it surprisingly difficult. I'm not sure why, exactly; our experience weaning couldn't have been better timed or more mutually respectful. But I can't help but feel a bit sad that my breastfeeding days are over.

I loved breastfeeding both my children. I loved that my body could provide all the nourishment they needed for their first six months in the world. I loved the comforting warmth of their bodies pressed against mine. I loved the way JJ looked drunk on milk and love when he pulled off my breast. I loved how The Peanut's hands never stopped moving as she nursed: stroking my hair, patting my cheek, then reaching down to touch her own belly.

Of course there were things about breastfeeding I wasn't wild about. With JJ, the first two weeks were a hell of sore nipples and anxiety about producing enough milk. With The Peanut, I had the comfort of knowing from the start that I'm a genuine milch cow, but the misery of cracked and bleeding nipples stretched over an entire year as we passed a thrush infection back and forth. And I sometimes resented being tethered to my children when they were tiny; despite our best efforts, both would have rather starved than drink from a bottle.

I nursed JJ until he was 20 months old, which is when I decided to get pregnant again. I know I could have continued to breastfeed, but I didn't feel up for it. Weaning JJ was an incredibly organic experience: one day the thought popped into my mind that I was ready to wean, and the next day he skipped his bedtime nursing session. Within a month, we were done...and I was pregnant again.

The Peanut got to breastfeed until she was almost two and a half. By then, we were only nursing in the mornings: she would wake up, come into our bed, and then nurse and cuddle for a while. I might have gone on that way forever had my body not decided to stage a protest. One day, seemingly out of the blue, my milk dried up—and breastfeeding became an agony.

I thought it would be hard to talk The Peanut into weaning. Toddlers can be remarkably stubborn about the tiniest things, and The Peanut's beloved Dee Dee (as she called nursing) did not qualify as a tiny thing. So, bracing myself for a violent backlash, I told The Peanut one morning that Dee Dee would have to stop. She was surprisingly calm about it: "Why we not do Dee Dee any more?"

"Well, you're growing up, sweetheart," I replied. "And you've probably noticed that there's not really any milk coming out."

"Dee Dee all gone?" she asked plaintively.

"Yes, sweetie. It's all gone. But let's have Dee Dee one more time, just so we can say good-bye."

"No." She shook her head decisively. "I done now. No more Dee Dee."

And that's how it ended, with barely a whimper. We still have our morning cuddle sessions, and she still comforts herself by stroking my hair. (Cries of "I need to touch Mommy's hair!" ring out quite frequently these days.) But I miss it, I really do.

Good-bye, Dee Dee.

Happy New Year!

Here are ten things in my life that bring me great joy:

1. My hilarious, brilliant, fabulous babies.

2. My adoring and adorable husband.

3. My work, which helps tether me to the world outside the House of Crazy.

4. The House of Crazy itself, which has taught me the meaning of the word "home."

5. Our beautiful coastside community, which despite its flaws, is exactly where I want to be.

6. Wonderful friends who make me feel good about myself and put up with all my bullshit.

7. A healthy body and (more or less) healthy mind.

8. A space of my own where I can write.

9. Having more than enough of everything -- so we can give to those who don't.

10. This blog.

Bad Santa

The Peanut has issues with Santa. And by "issues," I mean she finds him absolutely terrifying.

It started when I took her to a Christmas craft show a few weeks ago. There was a room set up for making your own gingerbread houses, which I thought she'd really enjoy. But while we were waiting in line, Santa walked by, ringing some jingle bells and belting out "Ho Ho Ho!s." That was the end of the fun for The Peanut. She buried her head in my chest and refused to let go of me. We left without gingerbreading.

The next weekend, JJ wanted to sit on Santa's lap, so we headed for the mall. JJ was thrilled to talk to Santa and gave him a big hug. Meanwhile, The Peanut tried to crawl back into my womb, even though she and I were about 100 feet from the Santa Land display.

And it's not only the mall Santa who's on The Peanut's shit list. "I don't want Santa in my house," she declares.

"But Peanut," JJ protests, "Santa's going to bring us presents!"

"He can leave them outside."

"But what about the cookies? We need to leave cookies out for him!"

"He can eat them outside, too."

I've asked The Peanut what's so scary about Santa. "He has pointy boots," is the only explanation I've gotten. I'll tell you one thing, though: that dude is everywhere. If you're looking for evidence of Santa's ubiquitousness, just check out the claw marks on my neck.

Ho ho ho.

Ten Things About Myself I Probably Shouldn't Admit

1. I hate board games.

2. I have an unforgivable habit of not tightening lids on jars. (Why Jack hasn't divorced me for this is a great mystery.)

3. My go-to "cleaning" method is to shove crap in cabinets, closets, and under the bed.

4. I hate calling people on the phone and will do almost anything to avoid it.

5. I was a bigger nerd in high school than you can possibly imagine.

6. Evidence of #5: The only team sport I played was Knowledge Bowl.

7. Yet more evidence: There is still a poster of Rick Springfield hanging on the wall of my old room at my father's house.

8. I hate hanging out at the playground.

9. I love reading science fiction and fantasy novels. (Don't ask me to divulge any titles because I will plead the Fifth.)

10. I can pee faster than anyone else on this earth.

Out of the mouths of...moms

Phrases I never thought I'd utter:

"No more eyeball talk at the dinner table!"

"You can kill each other after you get your pajamas on."

"Please take Mr. Incredible out of your mouth right now."

"Wow, that really is amazing. Thank you so much for showing it to me. Now will you please flush the toilet?"

Now it's your turn. C'mon, let's hear 'em.

Bad Guys

The good news is that JJ seems to be adjusting to life as a kindergartener. The bad news is that he's become very worried about Bad Guys.

Bad Guys seem to be a very big deal for boys in kindergarten. (Maybe preschool, too—we're probably just behind the curve on this.) When I asked JJ if he was having fun with the other kids in his class, he shook his head sadly. "The girls don't want to play with me. And all the boys...well, they just want to play Bad Guys."

JJ doesn't like playing Bad Guys. Or rather, he's not too sure about it yet. He's making tentative forays into the world of Bad Guys at home: the boy dolls are Bad Guys who are trying to kill the girl dolls. (I find this quite disturbing, actually: why are the girls always good and the boys always bad? It's a common theme in the House of Crazy.) But no killing ever occurs, because the girl dolls inevitably build elaborate structures out of Mega Blocks, then use their magic powers to render these structures invisible. The boy dolls wander around aimlessly, saying things like, "Well, I guess we aren't going to be able to kill those girls. I wonder where they went?" Meanwhile, the girl dolls hunker down in their invisible fortresses until the coast is clear.

I'm guessing that the Bad Guy scenarios on the playground are considerably more bloody or violent. The only evidence I have is that JJ has added a new bit to his bedtime routine:

JJ: Mommy, I'm scared. What if a Bad Guy comes in my room tonight?

Me: Are you afraid someone might come into your room?

JJ: Uh huh.

Me: Why?

JJ: I just am.

Me: Well, that's not going to happen. But if it did happen, I would hear it over your baby monitor. And I would come in and throw the Bad Guy out the window and into the street.

That satisfied him at first, but the next night he had another question:

JJ: What if the bad guy is stronger than you are?

Me: Are you kidding me? Feel this muscle.

JJ: But what if the Bad Guy's muscle is bigger than that?

Me: Well, that's very unlikely. But if his muscle were bigger than that, Daddy would come help me throw him out the window.

And the next night:

JJ: What if the bad guy is made out of fire?

Me: Oh, no problem. I'll throw water on him.

JJ: What if he's made of a grease fire and water won't work?

Me: That's why we have baking soda. And a fire extinguisher. I'll bring both just to be safe.

Each night the scenario has gotten more complicated. I'm beginning to think my child is losing faith in his parents' ability to protect him. I suppose that's inevitable—and even desirable—but it still makes me sad.

Tonight I'm going to give JJ his own squirt bottle to keep on his bedside table. Nobody—not even the baddest Bad Guy—enjoys being sprayed in the face. I'm quite sure I won't enjoy getting a faceful when I go check on him in the middle of the night.

Too tiny

“Would you like to try peeing in the potty?” I ask The Peanut hopefully.

“No.” She shakes her head. “Me too tiny.”

“Oh. When do you think you’ll be big enough?”

She shoots me a look of…disdain? Pity? “When me seven.”

...and beginnings.

Life Chez Crazy will never be the same again: JJ started Kindergarten on Monday.

Anyone who knows me in real life will want to run screaming into traffic when they see the word "Kindergarten" on my blog. I literally agonized for months about whether to send JJ this year. It got to the point where even Jack was sick of hearing about it. But it was a tough decision: JJ's birthday is in November, just a month before our state's cut-off date. Which means that he's starting Kindergarten at age four.

That wouldn't trouble me too much if it weren't for the trend of redshirting that's sweeping the nation. After all, I was four when I started Kindergarten. And like JJ, I was small for my age. (Of course, I was a girl, which I'm told makes a huge difference.) But because so many parents are holding their children back an extra year, many of JJ's classmates are more than a year older than he is. He's not the smallest child in his class, but there are certainly plenty of kids who tower over him. And when I think of what his life might be like in middle school, I break out in a cold sweat.

It's not that JJ's behind academically or socially. In fact, I'd venture to say that he's one of the more socially advanced boys of his age. But he's young. And maybe a little bit sheltered. (Which is undoubtedly my fault.) While the other boys are running around the playground being "bad guys" and gunning each other down, my sweet child is pretending to be a mermaid.

It's hard to know how to take his reports of school. On Monday he was excited: "We got to hear two stories! And sing lots of songs!" His enthusiasm carried over through Tuesday: "Today we got to hold the guinea pigs! They're so soft!" But Wednesday he seemed a little tearful: "No one wanted to play with me." And yesterday he told me he doesn't like school: "Two boys hit me. On the playground and then in the classroom." On the way to school today he said, "I just wish I were sick so I could stay home with you."

This is uncharted territory for me. JJ went to a cooperative preschool, so I was aware of most of what was happening even when he was away from me. Now there's a yawning four-hour period of his day that I know almost nothing about. I have this sick feeling in my stomach that makes me wonder if we've made a terrible mistake starting him so young.

I realize that any big decision we make will surely translate into years of future therapy, but this one really has me worried.

Endings...

My uncle died last week after a long battle with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I flew to the midwest for his funeral and spent time with my aunt and my cousins. It was good to see everyone even though it was a very sad event. And I'm glad I had the chance to say good-bye.

When I was little, my uncle scared the shit out of me. He was physically imposing with a big, booming voice—and a tendency to yell. I thought he was always angry, and because I'm basically a self-centered person, I thought he was always angry with me.

It wasn't until fairly recently that I realized what a wonderful, warm-hearted person my uncle was. Shortly before my grandmother died, I flew out to visit her and stayed with my aunt and uncle. My aunt informed me one day that she had plans for the evening and my uncle would be taking me out to dinner. I was terrified. I couldn't imagine what we'd talk about. I figured we'd stare at each other or he'd start yelling at me. I tried to think of an excuse, but there was no avoiding it.

I needn't have worried. My uncle chose a beautiful restaurant with great food. We shared a bottle of wine and sampled each other's entrees. We talked about so many different things: his psychiatry practice, my crazy family, my husband, and my uncle's children (my cousins). We laughed and cried and actually enjoyed a real conversation.

I'm not sure exactly why I feel so bereft. It's not as if I've lost a parent or even someone I saw very often. But I miss my uncle. I wish I'd known him better.

Happy Mother's Day

I became a mother at the age of 34, after years of being seriously crazy and somewhat unhappy. As the child of crazy and unhappy people, I was pretty sure I’d be a terrible parent and was unfit to have a child of my own.

And I didn’t particularly like kids. I never felt pangs of maternal longing, never wanted to hold other people’s babies. I thought they were lumpish and weird, and I was positive they’d break if I dropped them.

Jack and I were together for more than 10 years before I even considered getting pregnant. And then I realized I’d need therapy—a lot of therapy—before I had any business bringing a child into the world. So I spent several years getting my shit together, and then I took a deep breath and jumped.

And fell in love. From the moment I saw that pink line on the pregnancy test, I was crazy in love with the baby who turned out to be my son. People told me how much they loved their kids, but I certainly wasn’t prepared to be swept off my feet by a fetus. Then I gave birth to this perfect baby boy, and it was as if I’d known him all my life.

I knew I wanted JJ to have a sibling, but I couldn’t imagine there was room in my heart for another baby. My pregnancy with The Peanut was so different, probably in large part due to a completely dissimilar hormonal cocktail, but also because I was mourning the loss of the relationship I had with my one and only child. But then I discovered that what everyone told me was true: my heart has an infinite capacity for love, and The Peanut had her place in there right next to her brother.


Our family is complete now. There will be no more new babies, no more sweet milky faces or sleepless all-night nurse-a-thons. Even though I know that everyone’s here, I have moments of sadness when I realize that the only newborn babies I’ll hold will have sprung from someone else’s body. As The Peanut nears her second birthday and both children are becoming more independent, I know that a new chapter in our lives is just beginning. It’s glorious and heartbreaking and wonderful and tragic, and I only hope that I’m as good at letting them go as I am at holding them close.

Don't hate me because my house is clean

To those visitors to The House of Crazy—past, present, and future—I offer you an apology. I have a terrible, obnoxious habit to which I must confess.

You know when you call me and I say, "Sure, come over, but my house is a total disaster"? And then you come over, and it's reasonably tidy and clean? And then you think either a) I'm a totally insane neatfreak who clearly has no idea what a disaster is, or b) I'm a disingenuous asshole?

So this is what happens. I hang up the phone, look around and say, "Wow, this place really is a total disaster. I'm kind of embarrassed about it, actually. Maybe I'll just tidy up a bit." So I order the children to start picking up toys, and I start straightening the myriad piles of crap on the counter, and then I think, "Hmm, there sure is a lot of crap on the counter. Maybe I should sort it. Or maybe just shove it in the cookbook cupboard." Then I see that the counters are actually relatively filthy, so I give them a couple of spritzes and wipes. Then I see the carpet without the layer of toys—for the first time in days, I might add—and I say, "Wow, this carpet is really filthy. Maybe I ought to get out the vacuum."

And so it goes. If you come over within the hour, I won't have made much progress. If you take much longer, the place may actually look presentable by the time you get here.

So here's the moral of the story: don't call first. Just come on over. Revel with me in the piles of crap and the baskets overflowing with unfolded laundry. I hate housework, so I'll thank you for it.

One of Those Days

Every time I decide I've emerged from my depression, I have One of Those Days. Those days when just getting out of bed is a major accomplishment, taking a shower seems impossible, and putting on clothes is absolutely out of the question. And yet somehow I have to do all those things and feed the kids and help them get ready and keep them from killing each other and/or burning the house down and take JJ to school and carry The Peanut everywhere and nurse her every 5 minutes because she has horrible separation anxiety and make dinner and try to keep it together until everyone's in bed.

Before I had kids, I could spend days like this in my pajamas, in bed. Shortly before and during my nervous breakdown, I spent a lot of days in my pajamas, in bed. Don't get me wrong, I'm not pining for the good ol' days of burrowing under the covers and living in my fucked-up head. I think it's good for me to get out of the house and move. But some days are harder than others.

Yesterday was One of Those Days. I honestly felt I would never make it through. But somehow, I did, hopefully inflicting a minimum of emotional scarring on my children.

I wish I knew what triggered it. Maybe it was coming down from the sugar and love high of Valentine's Day, or maybe it was skipping my run that morning. Today I got up and ran three miles, and as I pounded along the sidewalk and watched the sun rise over the fog, the day seemed so much more hopeful.

I'm hoping tomorrow will be a good day, too.

Sleeping Beauty she ain't

Don’t be fooled by her rosebud lips, her dimples, or her penchant for pink frilly clothes: The Peanut is a frat boy in training. How else can one explain her room-shaking belches, fart jokes, and all-night partying? It’s the last trait that’s killing us here at the House of Crazy. I’d be weeping constantly if only I had the strength.

When your first child sleeps through the night at two and a half months, you’re sure you’ve got it all figured out. Oh sure, you tell everyone that it’s just luck, that you hit the jackpot. But secretly you’re sure that it’s your strict 7 pm bedtime, your nightly Goodnight Moon reading, and your magical boobs that deserve the credit.

Then you get the karmic ass-biting you so richly deserve: a child who simply won’t sleep. Suddenly, you’re apologizing to all your friends for your unbearable smugness. And begging them for advice. Because seriously, if you don’t get two consecutive hours of sleep you will lose your goddamn mind.

For the first three and a half months of her life, The Peanut would only sleep tucked into the crook of my arm. At the time, it was somewhat nightmarish if only because she insisted on a strict 7 pm bedtime, and I wasn't particularly thrilled about retiring so early. But it was also sweet to cuddle with my wee girlie.

At three and a half months, she blossomed into the party animal she is today. Bedtime was play time, and no one got a wink of sleep until we booted her into her crib. The crib was a bit better, but there was still a lot of night waking. And by "a lot," I mean every two or three hours. For pretty much the first year. Jack and I were walking zombies. Depressed zombies. Who never had sex any more.

The situation improved when she turned one. I don't mean she started sleeping through the night, mind you—I just mean two or three wakings. So that's how things stand now, and it's almost bearable. Except for the fact that every couple of months, she regresses to waking up every hour. Crying and begging to come sleep with us...and then when we bring her in the bed, it's party time.

I love The Peanut with all my heart, but I am about two sleepless nights away from renting her an apartment of her own.