After the swallow study she was still having trouble with any bottle not given in the presence of a highly-paid radiologist, so we added Simply Thick and Voila! Au revoir le tube de nasogastrique! This was our last homecoming prerequisite, so in the last two days we have had oxygen training, medication training, reflux classes, and infant CPR—not to mention a pseudo baby shower wherein my insurance company and a medical equipment supplier deluged me with nasal cannulae, a pulse oximeter, and a jaunty nebulizer shaped like a panda bear. The lowest setting the home tanks can deliver is more oxygen than Simone needs, but the pulmonologist felt there was no point in pushing her to come off entirely before discharge. We will likely ditch the O2 at her first outpatient scan in a month.

Last week was rife with small frustrations. Riding the elevator with a gaggle of pillow-clutching, birth-class-bound third trimester women and their partners made me want to cry or possibly extinguish a cigarette with someone’s face. Later I spent a full 30 minutes in my (ill-starred, now panic-inducing) perinatologist’s office waiting for Ames’s autopsy report, only to be told that it is still not back, after three months. Strange, especially as I have already received the bills from pathology. I don’t think they should be allowed to bill you for tests before producing the results, do you?
The point is, it was a hard week, but when those magic words “Simone,” “home,” and “Tuesday” were spoken, I rose into the air and flew high above the city, whistling a melodious tune and leaving a trail of gamboling kittens in my wake. I was happy, is what I am saying, and I don’t see myself coming back to earth any time soon.

Which doesn’t mean I have lost my ability to whine about the mundane: yesterday I went to Ikea, and was foolish enough to do so (a) alone and (b) in heels. Limping towards checkout pulling one cart and pushing the other with arms shaking from muscle fatigue I realized that I had left my purse…somewhere.
Luckily, Ikea comprises only 336,000 square feet.

Speaking of which, Scott and I realized yesterday that save a bookshelf from Target, Simone’s crib is the only piece of furniture we own that was not made by those particular Swedes. If all the Ikea items in the world were beamed into spaceships by a race of frugal, design-conscious aliens, we would be SO SCREWED.
And speaking of that, once home I realized that the wee shelves I bought for Simone’s room are unfinished pine. Does this mean I have to finish them, or can I just leave them all rustical like and do it later?
[Ed. Note: The correct answer, should you be tempted to give one, is “do it later.” “Or not at all” will also be accepted. Partial credit will be given for “maybe just rub a little oil soap on them.”]

My grandmother would roll in her grave to hear it, but last Tuesday I had a visit from a professional cleaning person. The downside to the renovations turned out to be that the floors of our new apartment were caked with construction grime, and it seemed the management’s post-construction cleaning consisted of nothing more than a quick whisk with a broom. A broom missing most of its bristles. And possibly previously used to smooth the walls of a wigwam.
I was not in the mood to complain, seeing as how this management company has treated us very well, but neither was I in the mood to spend hours on my hands and knees with my Mr. Clean Magic Eraser, which is not nearly Magical enough. Hence the cleaning person. And my ensuing middle-class guilt. Now, this cleaning person, though she was loaned to me by a friend, was not to my knowledge an indentured servant. I paid her handsomely. Yet while I was waiting for her outside on the stoop, I found myself wondering whether I should run upstairs and put a bottle of wine in the fridge in case she got thirsty, or maybe just pretend I was not the resident of the apartment at all, but merely a personal assistant dispatched to unlock the door at the appointed time. I could commiserate as the cleaning person paused in her labors, one hand on her back massaging the sore muscles she had acquired from years of toil.
“I hate that you have to do this,” I would say, “I think the sloppy bitch should scrub her own damn floors. More wine?”

Tonight I am putting the rest of the furniture together, washing loads and loads of baby laundry, and arranging a bouquet of bulb syringes on my bedside table. I think I might be nesting, which the pregnancy newsletter I still get from my former OB’s office told me to expect this week, so I’m right on schedule.
Somebody should tell that to Scott. “You need to be less crazy,” he said to me this morning as I nattered on about lists and schedules.
“[REDACTED]!,” I shrilled. And then I returned to alphabetizing my bobby pins.

We’re as ready as we’ll ever be, parenthood. BRING IT.

What I find so damnably frustrating is the fact that she can take full feedings by breast with no problem. We use a nipple shield, but the rest is all her: she sucks like a champ, remembers to stop and breathe, and even does this comedy bit where she growls and shakes my nipple like she’s trying to break its neck. The lactation consultants came to consult but left unneeded, shaking their heads in awe. Alas, Simone will be sent home on a growth regimen that includes two feedings of milk fortified with formula, and if she cannot take those feedings by bottle, she will end up with a g-tube.

I do not understand. Obviously she can drink without aspirating, because she does it several times a day via my mammaries. Simone’s nurse can’t remember another baby who couldn’t take bottles yet could breastfeed. My child is a puzzle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a milk-stained onesie. The best-case scenario would for the swallow study to show that she does not aspirate as long as the milk is thickened with rice cereal, so let’s hope for that. Better yet, let’s hope this has all been a clever ruse designed by my daughter to bust out of the NICU for an hour, and that once she is down in radiology she sucks down an unthickened bottle without incident.

Until tomorrow, I leave you with a video. The first act is a simple rendition of the hiccups, but the second act showcases the “door in a haunted house” sound effect Simone has been perfecting for weeks now. And at the end of Act III…well, see for yourself:

UPDATE:

Simone aced her swallow study. Unthickened. No aspiration, not even a suggestion of milk that looked like it might be considering possibly heading for her airway. As this is the only of her dozen or so attempts to bottle that has not ended in alarms and a blue baby, I am thinking my “clever ruse to score a field trip” idea is the only explanation. The speech pathologist was baffled.
“I can honestly say I have never been more wrong,” she said. But it’s not her fault that my child is so contrary. I swear the radiologist thought we were making the whole thing up, for kicks.
As Simone obviously can bottle feed safely, the plan is simply to keep trying and thicken with rice cereal if needed, to slow things down a bit. I saved the bottle they used (same kind as yesterday) just in case it has Magical Powers. The upper GI series showed grade 3 reflux, but that was no surprise.

So, uh, move along, nothing to see here! G-tube threat level reduced to Puce, or NONEXISTENT.

Last night I went out with my baby brother and I am still recovering. I had a particularly clumsy start to the evening—I nearly killed myself stepping out of the shower, having forgotten that my new tub is a much-higher clawfoot, and then I fell off my heels walking out to the taxi. Once in the very fancy bar of the very fancy restaurant I found myself unable to get into my seat at the table without awkwardly stepping over the entire chair. All this before my first sidecar.
And then my brother FORCED me to order another. And then we went into dinner and found that we had been given a complimentary bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Max is a chef and works front of the house at the best restaurant in the Cities, so he is used to this sort of treatment, but I am not, and so felt obliged to have a glass or two because FREE CHAMPAGNE!! And then I ate a bunch of rich food (gnocchi with lobster and butter sauce, veal sous vide, talleggio with honeycomb, and some sort of cheese filled crepe with figs and basalmic), which addled my senses enough that I ordered a glass of red wine. I did not finish either the wine or my second sidecar, but the damage was done. I vaguely remember announcing my hatred of young people, forgetting how recently some members of the table had attained suffrage. One of Max’s friends, a medical examiner, was there, and I both asked her what percentage of her work hours, approximately, she spends fighting crime, and congratulated her on her upcoming move to Baltimore by mentioning what a high murder rate they have (good for business!). And then I went home, and woke up at four a.m. inexplicably naked and sweating, with a pounding head and a firm conviction that I was only moments from death. I’m a regular Paris Hilton in a nursing bra, over here.
So I don’t think I’ll be doing that again anytime soon. I like a glass of wine as much as the next girl—maybe more, depending upon who this proverbial next girl is—but drunkenness is not for me. I don’t know if I have ever told you this, but I once, about five years ago, called my mother and brother in the middle of the night convinced that I had alcohol poisoning. This is noteworthy only because at the time I had consumed exactly two (2) Manhattans over a six-hour period. OH, the LAUGHTER. They still trot that story out every few months. What they don’t know is that despite their reassurances, I slept on my side that night to prevent a potentially deadly aspiration. Ah, carefree youth, I hardly knew ye! In fact, I never had even a passing acquaintance with ye, having been born at the tender age of 45.

We have not yet unpacked, which makes moving about the new apartment a treacherous undertaking indeed. And as the presence of my bosom is required at the hospital for much of the day, I am not sure how we will ever find the time to tackle Box Mountain. Yet Simone’s homecoming looms ever-closer.

One of the Baby of the Week judges pointed out that Simone is becoming quite fat and succulent-looking, and I must agree. She weighs five and a half pounds now, or about the equivalent of 28 average-sized adult hamsters. Why, I remember when she was only a little bigger than half-a-dozen gerbils! They grow up so fast.

I had so much fun reading through your comments and making my list of pre-homecoming essentials. I tried to sneak “pedicure” and “Nikon D40” onto said list, but Scott objected. (Of course with May 26th approaching, he has been trying to convince me that year one is “The Playstation 3 anniversary,” so he is not arguing from a position of strength). What your comments made especially clear is that I will need two or three hundred cloth diapers per baby-orifice, and probably I should just plan on scattering them liberally around the apartment to mop up any stray fluids. Your sling recommendations were helpful as well—I got a Baby Ktan (quite like a Moby-wrap-for-dummies), and it sounds like the Kangaroo Korner fleece pouch might be worth a look, irksome misspelling of “corner” notwithstanding.
Anyhow, I am in a much better position than I was last week, when a nurse asked whether I had “one of those vibrating chairs” for Simone yet, and if so, could I bring it in? and I thought she meant an infant-sized leather massage chair from Hammacher Schlemmer Baby or something. In my defense, I didn’t realize that bouncy-seats vibrated—I thought they were simply a spring-loaded receptacle in which to place the baby while you answer the phone or use the bathroom, a receptacle that you may “bounce” with your foot if you are so inclined. I had much to learn. Of course I do realize that all Simone really needs is a boob and my love and a dresser drawer lined with rags (well, besides her oxygen tank) but it’s lovely to finally, finally feel safe enough to shop for a carseat and mentally arrange nursery furniture.

Speaking of which, we got a call two days ago from our landlord, indicating that our new apartment was nearing completion. We picked up the keys today and start moving tomorrow, and also, we need to have our current place emptied and cleaned by Tuesday morning at nine. So, guess what I’m doing this weekend? If you guessed “moving,” you’re only half right—full credit goes to those of you who added “hyperventilating in the dark recesses of a closet.”

Of course the other thing I am doing this weekend is walking in the March of Dimes March of for Babies with Simone’s fabulous nurses. I suppose this means the babies will be all alone in the NICU, throwing a wild party ($3 cover, must be under 37 weeks, the breastmilk will flow like wine). The March is on Sunday, and this morning my iGoogle weather gadget displayed a picture of a christless SNOWFLAKE for that day. “Rain and snow showers,” they say. On the day of our noble four mile walk to keep babies alive! Really, April? Is that how you want to be remembered? As a babykiller? Let’s have a little sunshine. DO IT FOR THE CHILDREN.

NURSE PRACTITIONER: So, I just want to prepare you…
ALEXA’S INNER MONOLOGUE: Oh god, WHAT NOW?
NURSE PRACTITIONER: …for the fact that things may start moving quickly now that Simone is back on the regular cannula. She can be discharged on this oxygen setting, and once she is taking all her feedings by bottle or breast, we will be sending her home.
ALEXA’S NECK: WHIPLASH!

-Fade to black-

[SCENE: A lavishly appointed NICU ROOM. ALEXA is MAKING FACES at the BABY. WOMAN enters.]
WOMAN: Hi! I’m from Discharge Planning. Do you have a few minutes to talk?
ALEXA’S BRAIN: LIQUIFIES, DRIPS OUT RIGHT EAR

It looks like Simone is coming home. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of her life (we may have to negotiate that last part when she reaches college age, but never mind that now).
So, uh, I have a lot of questions. About babies. Because of how I have one. Who will be coming to live with me, at my apartment, where the nurse-to-neonate ratio is suboptimal (0-1). Currently, my knowledge of infants is more or less limited to the following:
1. Generally diminutive in size
2. Fond of milk
3. Exhibit poor impulse control
4. To clean, wipe with damp cloth
5. Should never be thrown out with bathwater

I was initially relieved to see that babies have their own Wikipedia page, but it turns out to be full of helpful tidbits such as “Babies cannot walk” and “Infants’ social presence is different from that of adults, and they may be the focus of attention. Fees for transportation and entrance fees at locations such as amusement parks or museums are often waived.”

While I am certainly pleased to know that I can send Simone out for an afternoon of sightseeing with a minimal amount of cash, I have more pressing concerns. Like the tag that came attached to one of my daughter’s snap-heavy unitards:

PARDON?

Catch FIRE? Are babies flammable? Is this something I need to be watching for, a PLUME OF SMOKE rising from her bassinet?
So yes: I have many questions. I could “read” or “consult experts,” but talking to the Internet has served me so well in the past that I thought I would do that instead. I have a whole slew of things to ask about breastfeeding and reflux and whatnot, but those will be more involved posts later this week (that anyone who is not deeply interested in my nipples may want to skip). For now, I will start with something simple:

MY NEUROSIS, LET ME SHOW U IT
One of the first things we heard when they started transitioning Simone to a crib was that she would need to be bundled up, and could we bring in some of her clothes? “Sure!” I said brightly, surreptitiously writing Buy Baby Clothes on my To Do list. I never had a baby shower, seeing as how I didn’t make it out of the second trimester, and my paranoia did not permit me to buy baby things during pregnancy myself (a good thing, too, or I’d be listing a double stroller on Craigslist right about now). After Simone was born, her health was so tenuous that I was even less inclined to purchase crib bedding I might have to re-tailor into an infant shroud.

But if trained medical professionals needed me to shop for wee bodysuits, well, by golly I would. So I ran out to buy a package of onesies…and staggered into my apartment three hours later with bags hanging from my every appendage, bags containing things like baby Tylenol and tiny socks and a random package of bottles. Perhaps my blood sugar was low, perhaps it was the fine mist of acquisition-promoting chemicals they spray into the air at Target, but once I tossed that first pair of footed pajamas into my cart, there was no stopping me. I was too superstitious to do anything with my freshly acquired loot but shove it into a closet and sneak in to stare at it every once in a while, but it’s a start. I have a Boppy sitting in the NICU. I have the softest stuffed elephant ever made. We even have a crib, an honest-to-goodness crib for a baby.

Besides the aforementioned baby Tylenol I now own a barrel-sized vat of hand-sanitizer, Pampers SENSITIVE! wipes, Johnson & Johnson NO MORE TEARS! baby shampoo, a bulb syringe, two hulking air purifiers, and a baby first aid kit—the only thing missing is the plastic bubble. But I know there is more to stocking a nursery than rectal thermometers and stuffed elephants, soft or not (the elephants, not the thermometers). And it’s confusing: did you know you aren’t supposed to use baby oil or baby powder? I assumed that the “baby” prefix meant they were appropriate for the younger set, but no.

So let’s assume, for a moment, that Simone is going to continue staying alive and eventually come home to the room earmarked for her—what do I need? Rags, obviously, for assorted fluids. Twine to keep her tethered safely in her crib. Anything I am missing? What did you use, and what was a waste of money that could more properly be spent on cheese and gin?

*But Were Too Infertile to Ask

When I left Wednesday evening the oxygen was on the lowest setting, and I was making a mental list for a planned IKEA trip to buy SVARSLIGS and such for the—gulp—nursery. The next morning, I ran an errand, arriving at the NICU around 10. All hell had broken loose, in the form of seven severe spells of apnea overnight, one of which required Simone to be manually bagged. This was extremely uncharacteristic. Simone is, in the words of her medical team, “very mature” neurologically. While in a 16-year-old this might manifest itself in inappropriate crushes on professorial types, in Simone’s case it means she holds her own pacifier, interacts with people, roots and latches, and—more to the point—doesn’t forget to breathe. Her apneic spells have been mild and related to her (dreadful) reflux.
It would have been lovely to get a phone call in the night when the wheels first came off, but bygones—Simone had been returned to the high flow nasal cannula and a septic workup had been started. A nurse practitioner—not one of Simone’s regulars—came to talk to me, and within 45 seconds I was in tears.

Quoth she:
•Simone could have an infection, but she may simply have gotten tired from her two days on the regular cannula, showing us that she failed her trial off the high flow.
•If she can’t come off the high flow, I should be prepared to hear about a tracheostomy.
•Her lungs don’t look that bad on x-ray, so there may be a problem with her airway instead, like tracheomalacia. Probably she should have a bronchoscopy next week.
•Also, looking at her growth charts, her weight seems to have plateaued. She was only at 3% on the preemie charts before, and now she’s straying from that curve.
•Probably that means she is expending too many calories breathing, and hey, have you met my friend, MR. TRACHEOSTOMY?
•Of course there is also the possibility she’ll need a G-tube, which would help her get the nutrition she needs without losing as much energy.
•But we have a good FOUR TO SIX WEEKS to think about all that.
•Now, how about a nice lumbar puncture?

I was overcome. How did we go from “hurry up and find a car seat” to “buy stock in home medical equipment?”

I try not to cry in front of the nurses and doctors, because I find they are more likely to keep you completely and honestly informed if they don’t think you’ll fall apart at the mere suggestion of unpleasantness. But this time I couldn’t seem to get myself under control. Silence was the best I could do; I stood in my sterile gear for the spinal tap, tears streaming into my mask.
Simone didn’t respond well to the Morphine, so they gave her a dose of Narcan and the nurse practitioner reached over and turned her high flow up to three liters. A hissing sound filled the room, and I thought “I don’t remember high flow being that loud. How quickly we forget!” Two more doses of Narcan and half an hour later, as Simone continued to falter, it was discovered that the hissing sound was her oxygen escaping. When she reached for the dial, the NP had disconnected a tube. At that point I wanted to kick the whole world in the shins, but instead I watched as a sweet, nervous nursing student attempted to eke a few drops of spinal fluid from my daughter. With a needle. In her spine.
Simone’s CRP came back elevated, indicating infection, and she was started on IV antibiotics. They weren’t able to get enough urine for a urinalysis, just a few drops for culture. I went home and slept like a dead thing.

By yesterday Simone seemed noticeably better, though her cultures were coming up negative. Our favorite NP—one who is especially fond of Simone—had taken over her care. I accosted her immediately and rattled off what I had been told by Wednesday’s NP. My side of the conversation can be summed up like this: WTF???? Her side was more helpful.

Quoth she:
•It doesn’t make sense that Simone simply tired out and “failed” the regular cannula. If that were the case, her O2 needs would have been creeping up rather than going down consistently before the Night of the Seven Spells. The apnea was probably due to a UTI. Even though nothing grew on the culture, the fact that her urine was cloudy, that her CRP was up, and that she began to improve dramatically with antibiotics is suggestive.
•There is no reason to believe that Simone will be unable to come off the high flow and need a tracheostomy. It is possible, yes, but not probable.
•There is no evidence that there is anything wrong with Simone’s airway. Her known reflux is much more likely to be a cause of intermittent spells than is a floppy airway.
•Simone’s weight hasn’t “plateaued.” She is recovering from busy weeks transitioning to a crib and off the ventilator. G-tube schmee-tube.

As you can imagine, I liked this conversation rather more than its counterpart from the previous day. I am trying not to be upset about the communication breakdown, the (undoubtedly well-meaning) alarmism, the DISCONNECTED OXYGEN TUBING—and for the most part I am succeeding, mostly because my relief doesn’t leave room for much else. Simone’s CRP has started to go down with antibiotics, and she has had virtually no spells since Thursday morning. She is on high flow with room air, and was active and googly-eyed this morning, the cotton batting securing her scalp IV perched atop her head like a fancy Parisian hat. I don’t understand how it is possible to have a bladder infection without a positive culture, but then I can’t do cartwheels or like physics either: some things remain beyond me.

That’s all for now. More as events warrant.

Morning.

The next hour was a busy one, what with all the tears, confused phone calls, and flushes of shame and futility. I could chronicle every excruciating second, but why keep you in suspense? Somebody was siphoning money from my account into their own: Me.

To explain, I must take you BACK IN TIME, all the way to LAST WEEK. If I cast my mind back to this forgotten era, I can remember that my bank was located in the same building as my office, some 25 minutes from my apartment. Having just officially(!) resigned(!) from my job, I decided to open a new checking account ( “CA”) at a bank closer to home. I transferred money from my old account to open the new one, and then…I promptly forgot about it.

Did I redirect my automatic withdrawals to the new account? No, of course not! Did I retain any memory of opening the account at all? Well, sort of, in that I kept checking the mail for my new debit card, but I failed to recall both 1) that actual money had been required to set up the account, and 2) the provenance of said funds.

I have never screwed myself more efficiently. Following years of subtler, more complicated self-sabotage, the directness ought to be refreshing. At least that’s what I told myself as I kissed my money goodbye.

Happily, the next day was much better:

After more than two months of lolling about in her own filth, Simone had her first bath.

She loved it. I loved it. One of her favorite nurses held her upright while I washed her slippery little limbs (Simone’s limbs), and at one point I started to giggle—I think it was while utilizing what appeared to be a hospital-issue Barbie comb.
“This is the most fun I have had…Well, ever.”

After the bath, I dried Simone with a warmed blanket and dressed her in one of those snap-laden garments all the babies are wearing. Where did all this snapping take place, you ask?
Oh, just in her CRIB.
Yes! A crib! All open to the air, and whatnot, so that I can rush over and touch her whenever I feel the need. Don’t mind me—it’s just your mother, rubbing your fat little belly.

Excuse the tardiness of my epiphany, but OH MY GOD. I have a baby.

Actually, I could use a cocktail about now as well. Simone celebrated her two-month birthday yesterday by testing positive for MRSA colonization. Yes, that MRSA.
But before you start rolling in ashes and rending your tunics, let me assure you that this is not the same thing as a MRSA infection or (god forbid) MRSA sepsis. The MRSA is not in her, so to speak, it is on her, having set up a tiny utopian colony in her nasal mucous membranes. I have to say that hearing people say that your baby has been “colonized” is rather alarming, and I cannot help but feel that MRSA ought to GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM. WE DON’T WANT YOUR KIND AROUND HERE. Suddenly multiculturalism seems like a terrible idea, at least when the cultures involved are methicillin-resistant staphylococci.

So now there is an isolation cart outside Simone’s room, and a sign on the door, and every nurse who enters wears a gown, and it just about breaks my heart. I feel defensive on Simone’s behalf, somehow, which is silly as it’s not like she contracted MRSA by being especially slutty. She previously tested negative, but after 60-some days in a hospital a baby is bound to catch something. I have been told that being colonized should not effect her health, and in fact a large percentage of the population is colonized without realizing it, meaning you, dear reader, could be harboring a colony right at this very moment. Doesn’t that make you want to take a quick shower? In bleach?

Yesterday went downhill from there. Simone had a positively medieval-looking eye exam (not the cunning miniaturized eye-chart I had been hoping for) and every time they touched one of her eyeballs, which were held open by tiny metal spiders, she let out a squall like a cat would if tied in a burlap sack with a wolverine. The exam showed beginning stages of Retinopathy of Prematurity (stages one and two), and while it’s nothing to worry about just yet, between that and the MRSA I was reminded that things are always popping up when you least expect them, and that there is a whole month left in which to fit a few more NICU catastrophes. I flew right back to the place where I used to live, the place where I am afraid to even imagine my baby coming home. And of course I know that if Simone does come home, there is nothing to say she won’t die of RSV or SIDS or by pulling one of our bookshelves onto herself (my god, I’m a laugh a minute today, aren’t I?). She is doing so well there is no reason for me to be so tiresomely morbid, but I can’t seem to help myself.
Lately I am thinking often of this family, who are facing something they likely never imagined. Babies should not get brain cancer. It is just…wrong. The lovely Emily is organizing support and donations, because if there is one thing those parents should not have to think about right now, it is money.

What I think about, mostly in the middle of the night, is how they will ever feel safe again. I wonder that too for myself, after everything that has happened in the past three months. When will I feel less like every moment with Simone could be my last? Will I ever be able to take her, just a little tiny bit, in the happiest possible way, for granted?

P.S. The first person to say something about hearts walking around outside bodies gets AN ANATOMY TEXTBOOK SOAKED IN HUMAN BLOOD.

The answers are 1. I don’t know, god help me; 2. Thankfully, yes; and 3. This is the last time we move until we buy a house, and if I have to sit on a toilet for two years to ensure that, well, so be it. Those of you who have not been reading as long may be wondering “Has Alexa started packing?” or “Does Alexa have time to pack?” and the answer to both of those is “No,” followed by a hollow laugh.
(Those of you who asked yourself no questions, instead making a snide comment about gauchos: VERY GODDAMN FUNNY).

Anyway. Last fall we got new upstairs neighbors. Almost immediately, the noise began—just after bar close, around 2:30 in the morning, mostly in the form of incredible thumps and crashes that shook our ceiling and were often accompanied by raucous laughter. This went on every weekend for some time, and around Christmas it started to unhinge my poor husband. I wasn’t delighted by it either, but as mentioned before, confrontation is not my strong suit, and it seemed easier to put up with being occasionally startled awake. I tried to see the bright side: attempting to figure out what on earth they were doing up there was a diverting puzzle that kept me occupied during many a nocturnal bathroom trip.

The obvious explanation was cow tipping. The tenants were two young men from Wisconsin in their early to mid twenties, boys who appeared unaware that they had left the perpetual keg party of college and entered the real world. Or perhaps they were confusing the real world with the television show of the same name. Anyway, my cow tipping theory, though it explained the window-rattling WHUMPs, was ultimately disproven when we found out what was really going on: drunk, shirtless wrestling.

I can’t remember exactly when we made this discovery, but it was after several calls to the building manager and multiple visits by the police. Our neighbors’ continued devotion to the sport baffled me. A few days after I was released from the hospital, I stormed upstairs at three a.m., my dislike of conflict temporarily overcome by roiling post-partum hormones and the fact that Scott’s endless hand-wringing about our living situation was getting on my very last nerve. One of the ruffians, Clompy—so named because he wears the world’s loudest cowboy boots—answered the door, weaving. As he slurred his apology, I looked past him to where his roommate sat, sans shirt, on a piece of furniture that had been pushed against the wall. Our building is a small, quiet one, its 12 apartments populated primarily by bookish types and professionals. These hoodlums had been warned, repeatedly, that further complaints would result in eviction, and yet nothing—not Scott, not the law, not my barrage of subliminal Brokeback jokes—could induce them to quit writhing intoxicated before a crowd of braying friends.

Eventually the inevitable happened. They were booted, and no-doubt fearing a repeat of my husband’s wrathful 2 a.m. phone calls with another tenant, the building’s owner offered us their top-floor apartment. Upon touring it, however, I declined. Our current apartment is Fancy. The apartment above has the same footprint and identical living/dining/bed rooms, but the kitchen and bath were horrifying, with outdated cabinetry, bizarre layouts, and the most revolting red-and-white-checkered linoleum I have ever seen. Not that I am a red-and-white-checkered linoleum connoisseur or anything, but trust me: it was unlivable. However when I explained this to the owner, he offered to completely renovate the wrasslers’ apartment, tearing up the linoleum, refinishing the hardwood floors, and installing all new granite countertops, bathroom tile, cabinetry, sinks, and toilet.

I have always wanted to have something renovated, and being able to do so without paying any of the money, doing any of the work, or absorbing any of the inconvenience of having my home ripped asunder was too great an enticement to resist. Besides, after the winter I have had, there is something appealing about a fresh start. A nice archaeologist couple has rented our apartment for May 1st, and we move the last week of April.
April being, of course, the month we are in now.

Is deciding to move just before my daughter comes home from the hospital (insert paranoid genuflection here) a form of postpartum psychosis, do you think? Or am I psychotic LIKE A FOX?