Suburban Blues

If you had a dear friend who also happened to be a professional therapist then you would also be informed that it is normal to have a little, shall we call it transitional depression when you move. I mean, honestly, everything with the move is fine and all, but it's just different and it takes getting used to.

I think the biggest change is the quiet neighbors. Everyone just keeps to themselves. There are houses for sale across the way and I am hoping and praying and praying and hoping that some families with kids move in. Really loud kids who keep knocking at our door, bugging us wild all day and night. I miss that. When I realized that we were not going to receive cookies to welcome us to the neighborhood, I brought some hello truffles to the families next door. Not sure how impressed they were, but what the hey, I couldn't stand it. Yesterday the kids and I followed another "for sale" sign down the street, with the hopes it would lead us to another potential new family. We saw a mother and son raking leaves in the front yard. We consumed them with over-eagerness. Hi! We're the Speirs! Do your kids like pizza? What school do y'all go to? You're from Nigeria? We love everyone from Africa, each and every one. Can we be friends? Want to come over for coffee? Do you like soccer? We have a big yard, want to come over for soccer? Actually, they were very nice and accepted our enthusiasm with much grace.

Pathetic.

But that is the suburbs, I suppose. I know that acquaintances and friendships can form, they just take longer. And there is something inside me that just can't understand all these plots of yards divided by dog fences that each have their very own riding lawn mower. I mean, can't we simply share? It just seems silly. We are taking the Lonn approach -- letting the grass grow as long as the neighbor's can stand it. (Well, that's not really the Lonn approach, but he came up with that for a great line once.) Victory for today: we figured out the local sanitation procedures.

Anyway, I wanted to post this picture of one of our garages that has potential of transforming into my pottery-barn-garden-center-art-cottage.

For now I am thinking that the best remedy for the transitional depression is to adapt, starting with alarm clocks for all. Mama panda got the deluxe one with nature sounds. Because we must get out of bed in pitch black morning and I started this crazy thing of cooking hot breakfasts for the kids before school. Am working on putting other lights around the house on timers because I can barely make it to the a.m. kitchen for the blackness.

If you had a dear colleague who taught middle school for 15 years then you would believe her when she tells you that this picture is normal. You would breath a sigh of relief when stuff like this makes her laugh. You would think how pretty it is that your son colored his creation perfectly inside the lines. Now you see why I call Aidan my cute little Donald Rumsfeld? By the way, as of today I've been informed that I cannot kiss or hug him in public. We agreed on high-fives.

As always, I am wondering why I am blogging when I am so tired and it's time to turn on my ocean sounds and go to sleep.

Thanks so much, friends, for logging in. You're the best. You really are. And I so much appreciate your thoughts and prayers.

With love, T