Minda Goes West

This weekend was the first time Youngest has been to San Francisco, and his first time in California since he could walk, so we wanted to make sure he had some fun in between apartments. We saw the sea lions on Fisherman's Wharf. We climbed the 16th Street Tiled Steps. We visited the Japanese Tea Gardens in Golden Gate Park. We dipped our toes in the Pacific at Ocean Beach. On Monday, having exhausted all of the apartments we could get appointments to see in the areas we wanted, we drove down to Santa Cruz to enjoy the beautiful sunny day. On the way, we walked among the redwoods at Henry Cowell State Park. In Santa Cruz, we walked along the boardwalk, rode the wooden roller coaster built in 1924, and explored the tide pools.

WriterMan, Youngest, and I spent the long weekend apartment hunting in San Francisco. We saw 13 properties over three-and-a-half days, and would have seen more if the listing agents had returned our phone calls. There was the beautifully staged, stamp-sized apartment that WriterMan and Youngest fell in love with on the second day that had extremely inadequate storage and a tiny living-dining space that couldn't hold a couch. I had an anxious hour or so until WriterMan finally agreed that it really was too small. Youngest remains unconvinced. There was the house on the busy street that seemed great to me, until we got to the shared back yard and saw the junk pile, including a queen mattress. WriterMan noticed that the carpets were stained and smelled of cat. There was the Oliver Twist apartment, which had a shared wooden staircase that reminded us of the movie. The kiss of death for that one was no parking in a very busy neighborhood. Youngest loved the staircase. (We disc

I usually think of rural life as being quiet, and during the winter it is. The brook freezes over, most birds head south, and the thick snow dampens the sound. Even the chickadees sing less. But by early May, things are loud around here. The brook thaws, and we can hear the waterfall across the road. The song birds all start chirping at 4:30 in the morning, and stay at it until at least 7:00. And the frogs. Oh my word, the frogs! We have at least four kinds in our pond, although some of them we hear for shorter periods of time than others. The pickerel frog is the most distinctive, but the spring peepers are the loudest. A glimpse of our pond through the bushes that surround it. This time of year, we can hear the frogs from inside our bedroom on the opposite side of the house, with the windows closed. If you stand near the pond, your ears hurt with the sound, the vibrations beating against your ear drums. I love it. I will miss it. Even in California.

I'm not sure if it's pessimism or realism, but I'm assuming that this will not be the only time the stress of the move brings out my not-so-great side. It started early Sunday, when my husband sought me out in my usual spot on mornings when it's too chilly or wet to sit on the deck--curled up in the blue recliner in the nook near Youngest's room. It has a nice view over the pond, and it puts me at the height of the flowering trees for good bird watching. "I definitely want to move that chair," he said, unsuspectingly. Now, I have a strong tendency to overemphasize what Gretchen Rubin calls the Strategy of the Fresh Start. I go beyond acknowledging that a new beginning is a good opportunity to develop a better habit. I envision a world in which life will be perfect after the move, or the new year, or the start of a new work project. It's stupid, I know. Unrealistic. Unhealthy. I have made a lot of progress in my fight against this attitude,

Not the move! We're still completely excited about that. No, the decision I'm questioning is our choice to spend a week getting our diet back on track by following a strict meal plan. WriterMan and I do this a couple of times a year, and although we chafe at the lack of sugar and alcohol (and bread!), the vegetables and lean meats definitely make us feel better. Not to mention return us to our preferred weights. But I'm here to tell you, there's a reason why people don't typically give up sugar and alcohol and fast food when they are trying to sell a house. Tonight was our second dinner-time showing. As the kids and I headed out, what I wanted to do was grab sandwiches or tacos from a local shop, and follow it up with a creemee. I did not want to wait until after the showing to cook turkey cutlets and steam green beans. No, I didn't. Not at all. The saddest thing of all is that our scale broke yesterday, so I can't even quantify the reward for my

Eighteen years ago, my husband and I stepped on a plane with our three kids (ages 4, 5 months, and 5 months), and moved from Utah to Rhode Island, reversing generations of westward migration in both our families. I am so grateful for our time in New England, but there has been a growing sense over the last few years that it was time to return to the west coast. We learned yesterday that my employer has agreed to relocate me to our San Francisco office, starting July 2. We want this move. I fought hard for this move for almost two years. We are delighted to have the approval. And yet, the logistics of the next few months have us quaking in our boots. I think we're about to find out why there's not a precedent for moving cross-country during the same summer you launch twins into post-high-school life. When I told my husband we had approval, he hugged me, let out a big breath, and said, "It's probably too late to say I changed my mind." Too late, i