Editor’s Note: Jenna is blogging about her adventures through pregnancy. Here's this week's installment of Jenna's (Baby) Food for Thought.
The alarm just went off, followed by that split second where you don't know what day it is or what's on the agenda, when you just lay there in a state of stupid, drowsy bliss.
It only lasts a few seconds and then -- BAM! -- you're back. This morning's stupid bliss was especially delicious, because what awaited me when it was over was decidedly not: moving day, and thus, chaos. After seven years in my darling little Manhattan apartment -- 7 years, 6 bathroom themes, 5 must-have winter coats, 4 relationships, 3 break ups, 2 much drama to mention, and 1 big reason to move out -- we're expanding.
This baby hasn't even reared her beautiful little face yet and she's already making demands about where we live (Baby: Yeah, I'm going to need my own room). She's dictating what I eat: (Baby: I want pasta. No I want crackers. No, I want pickles. No, definitely pasta). And she's deciding exactly how hard I work out (Baby: Even though Mom wants to do bootcamp, I think we'll instead take an easy walk)
In less than an hour, the movers will be here to collect and box and impersonally move our "stuff" out. Well, my partner Steph calls it “stuff,” I call it my most valuable possessions: my Michael J. Fox binder of posters, my James Bond DVD collection, my rope bracelets (I went through a phase), and my diaries and journals which literally date back to third grade.
Actual diary entry from third grade:
May 14, 1983 -- Today was a good day. Sarah came over after school. Mom made cupcakes. I ate 2 of them. Sarah asked her mom if she could sleep over. But her mom said no so we played outside. I jumped out of the tree house. And then she left.
(If that was my GOOD day, can you even imagine what my BAD day was like?)
Movers are here. Five of them. Let the fun begin.
A symphony of cardboard flaps, masking tape rips, stacking, packing and labeling. Steph conserves her words when she labels boxes: CLOSET STUFF. I am slightly more expressive with my labeling: RED WORKOUT GRAPHIC T’S, BIKING SHORTS, BLACK DRESS SOCKS, BASEBALL HAT FROM BEIJING OLYMPICS, WHITE LAUNDRY BAG FROM CUTE HOTEL IN TURKS (really?). You get it.
And what was the little one doing during all this bending and light lifting and twisting and focusing? She was doing the unborn version of Tae Bo, clearly enthralled with it all.
Guys are making great progress. Half the stuff is out already!
ME: (Looking through bags) Steph, where are those granola bars?
ME: So no granola bars?
Must. Get. Lunch
ME: (Looks at Frisbee) Is this food?
The last two boxes are finally out. (I love that one of them was labeled BABY STUFF and the other labeled STEPH'S WAR ZONE GEAR – the disparate belongings of my two favorite people.) And with that, we were done. A little sweep here, some last minute dust-downs there, and then we were out. It's almost cathartic to watch as all your belongings, which took years to collect and become part of you, are sorted into broadly named categories: BEDROOM, BATHROOM, KITCHEN, PICTURES OF THE GUY FROM ”FAMILY TIES.”
So we're officially out of the old apartment, but while we wait to move into the new one (Read: High Maintenance Baby can't breathe in fumes while place is being painted), we're bunking with my friend Marcy, who is kind enough to let two TV gals (and the 275 bags we apparently need for the week we're staying here) take up shop in her second bedroom. It's like college all over again -- me, Steph, Marcy, Marcy's boyfriend, Marcy's hilarious cousin and just about everyone else who wants to stop by. Marcy is the Jerry Seinfeld of the neighborhood. The sitcom takes place mostly in her apartment -- the laughs, the bigger laughs, the dinners -- while the smaller scenes go on out there. So this next week, while slightly nomadic for us, will be a deliriously fun pre-cursor to our move into our grown-up apartment next week.
Just got into bed. What a day. Every fiber of my being excited to drift off to a much anticipated deep sleep. Oooh! The baby just kicked. How appropriately well-timed. Sweet dreams, little one. I promise tomorrow will bring a lot more belly laughs, and a lot less cardboard.