Not my favorite virtue.

I'm not a particularly patient person. I believe I mentioned here, here, here and here how I feel about waiting. Let me summarize: waiting sucks. This deeply-held belief is what made it so frustrating to go through six years of infertility issues. It's why I had trouble with what seemed like an interminable recovery process after my car accident. It's why I wanted to scream at someone every day while the lawyers worked out our real estate debacle. And potty training Grace? Let's just say I did the best I could and leave it at that.

Grace. I realize the most important lesson I can learn from her, other than how to say, "I love you" with abandon to anyone and anything (including trees), is to be a more patient person. There is no rushing a four-year-old. When we walk to school in the morning, Grace really doesn't give a rip when we get there. Why should she? My impatience has everything to do with the fear that the teachers silently curse me for consistently being late and absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Grace might miss a few minutes of circle time.

I'm actually fine with Grace when we have no destination or goal. If I'm with her at the park, or tagging along while she rides her tricycle, or hanging out at OMSI or just farting around (literally—she farts like an old man), I don't have the same awareness of time that I have when I'm getting her ready for bed or watching her eat (torture).

The trouble I see on the horizon, however, is that she may learn—or inherit—impatience from me. She hits the ground running every morning and doesn't stop until bedtime, and I've noticed lately that if I don't hear something the first time she says it, she is enormously burdened by the need to repeat herself. Maybe this is just typical four-year-old behavior; I hope so. But she also has little patience with herself (very familiar territory), which makes me wish she could enjoy a few more years of carefree experimentation before she starts worrying about doing everything perfectly the first time. But I'm afraid that ship sailed a while ago. Grace is one of those kids who started walking late, but nailed it in a day. Ditto with talking—there wasn't much trial and error with Grace; she just started speaking in complete sentences when she was ready.

I'm working on cultivating patience where I feel it will serve me well, mostly with family and friends and, to a certain extent, myself. But I will never feel comfortable engaging in idle chit chat or waiting to hear from someone I miss talking to. I'm much more into making things happen than waiting for things to happen to me. I know that this may come across as pushy or controlling to some people, or even a little crazy. I just don't really care.

This morning I ran into a man whose wife recently died unexpectedly, leaving him with two young daughters. Although I had coffee with her a couple of times, I'd never met him and had no idea what to say. So I said nothing, but cried all the way home, wondering how many experiences that family missed out on because they were waiting for the right time. I'm projecting like crazy here; for all I know, they lived every day as if it were their last. But I've been living my life in limbo for more than two years now, and I'm tired of wondering what will come next. Life is happening every second of every day, and waiting seems a waste of time. I get it: I made some tough decisions and big changes, and I need to wait for the dust to settle before I can feel settled. I've no one to blame but myself for my restlessness, so I'll try to be patient a while longer. Really, I will. But I don't have to like it.

Dishpan hands.

Back to the Year of Living with Less. You know what? I have very little to report. What we have given up: space, a dishwasher, a microwave, control of the thermostat, cable TV, a land line, a fenced yard and the ability to properly check the weather without walking up a flight of stairs. Boo hoo. It's simply not that dramatic. The two (three?) flooding incidents that first week were the worst of it so far. Knock on wood.

It's a pain to deal with the dog when Grace is here, but when Grace is at school, Brady gets long walks, rain or shine. We both needed that. It's become more difficult to have friends over, particularly Grace's friends, because there isn't much room to run around. But Grace has the biggest room in the place, and soon I will convince her that it's much more fun to play in her room with her toys than to pepper the adults with questions like, "What are you drinking? What's your favorite color? Do you toot a lot?"

More than anything else, I'm struggling with unpacking. There is space here for most of the belongings I chose to keep. (The thirteen boxes of books have me stymied, since in the past I've hung bookshelves, which I've decided not to do here because I'm tired of doing it over and over. There's no room for a massive bookcase, so for now they are in my closet, where my clothes should be.) My ambivalence has more to do with the notion of actually settling in here, and what it means in the grand scheme of my life. We've moved six times in the last five years; we will probably move again when this lease is up. I'm tired of packing and unpacking, and we seem to be getting along fine with the basics. Why bother finding a place for things we don't need? But that leaves me feeling unsettled, as if this is not a home as much as a pit stop on the way to my real life. That feeling is getting old, fast.

When I open a box full of vases, all I can think is, "Why the hell do I have so many vases?" It will be a long time before I buy another candle or a box of fancy soap. I have a ridiculous collection of kitchen utensils from my previous life of cooking (as a hobby!) and entertaining frequently. Since I've gotten into the habit of eating practically the same thing every day so that I don't have to put much thought into my meals (it's enough trying to get Grace to eat a healthy diet), I really don't need that giant roasting pan, or a kitchen scale, or separate little scrubby brushes for corn, potatoes and mushrooms. I have a huge box of barware that hasn't been opened since John and I moved out of our first house. Wine glasses, champagne flutes, pilsners, water goblets and who knows what else. I know I won't bother to unpack this. I just need to hide the box.

Today I'm going to take the plunge and haul everything out of the laundry room into the apartment and decide what to unpack; the rest I will probably get rid of. Just like a closet full of clothes that don't get worn, I have a surfeit of things that don't get used or appreciated. They are weighing me down, and I doubt they will be missed. Wish me luck.

(As far as dishpan hands are concerned, I'm lucky to be washing my dishes in a sink rather than in a filthy river in which someone upstream is peeing. And it's a little slice of me time that I'm beginning to enjoy.)

Wild ride.

I'm back on that wackadoo emotional rollercoaster, where one minute I'm feeling connected and in the moment, and the next thing I know I've fallen into a funk and can't get up. I thought I had become fairly adept at rolling with the punches, focusing on the positive and trying to believe that everything is happening for a reason. Perhaps I was premature with my smug self-congratulations.

Grace still keeps me on my toes, but she seems to have turned a corner where expressing her frustrations is concerned. This is great, because now I know what's bothering her, and if it's that Brady is in her spot on the sofa, I can deal. But if it's that she's sad because she misses Daddy when she's here and misses Mommy when she's there, well, that's heartbreaking. And another post entirely. (Next up: my thoughts on divorce. In a word? Shitty.)

Back to good things. I got a sweet review on mamalit.com, which gave me a much needed boost (but has done diddly for sales). I also got a lovely email from a woman who read Soft Landing and took the time to sit down and tell me why. THAT made my day, mostly because of the act of kindness, but also because she came to read Soft Landing in exactly the way I imagined. She read a comment I left on another blog, which prompted her to check out my blog, which resulted in her ordering my book. If that happened a hundred times a day, I'd be set!

I've also finished the first three chapters of my next book, and I can't express the feeling I get when I'm writing and I'm in a groove and I know the words are coming together beautifully. It's a high, and sometimes I get going and before I know it the day is gone. Other times, I can't even open my laptop, because I'm afraid I won't find any words at all. I don't like to write when I feel uninspired; but, just as momentum can keep me going for hours when I'm loving it, inertia can paralyze me for days if I don't force myself to sit down and WRITE ANYTHING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST WRITE.

Back and forth, back and forth. I'll spend time with a friend and feel so lucky to have such wonderful people in my life, and the next day I'll pick up the phone to call someone but I can't imagine a single person will want to talk to me. I spent all day today working in the yard, happy as a clam and full of optimism about the time we'll spend here. Then I came in, showered, ate dinner and totally hit a wall. (Blood sugar could have been the culprit there.) So here I am, babbling away and not really feeling anything but sore at the moment. Bedtime, and, I hope, happy dreams.

Feeling a little used.

Powell's is a Portland institution, occupying an entire city block and hailing themselves "the largest independent used and new bookstore in the world..." who carries "an extensive collection of out of print rare, and technical titles..." blah blah blah. Every time I mention I've written a novel, I am asked some variation of, "So is it for sale at Powell's?" And everyone assumes I will eventually be doing a book signing at Powell's, since they are so beloved locally and one assumes the feeling is mutual. They have a section devoted to debut authors; another category comprises local authors.

I have Powell's to thank for one book sale: the copy I dropped off with my press kit wound up on Amazon.com for sale by Powell's as "used" — and below retail price. I had visited the store twice hoping to be granted an audience with their purchaser, and left several messages regarding my novel. Nothing. This hurts. As a local, debut author, I guess I expected at least the courtesy of a return phone call or a, "You're wasting your time" heads up from the person who took my information. Instead, they discarded my blood, sweat and tears (oh, the drama), making almost entirely profit. I get nothing but the satisfaction of knowing that at least someone bought it.

I knew this kind of crap happens with booksellers, reviewers and other media, but POWELL'S? Yuck. I guess I have one thing in my favor: when Soft Landing is finally available through wholesalers, I'll be able to revisit the great and powerful Oz at Powell's and let him know they've already sold out of my novel once.

Enough with politics, let's get back to MY world.

My mom sent these pictures when they returned home from the coast. (They don't have an internet connection there — can you imagine the hardship I endure not being able to check email?) This particular pair struck me as a great metaphor for the last six months. There we are in the first one, chilling and enjoying the moment, dimly aware that the ocean (life) can be a capricious bitch, not particularly feeling in the crosshairs, but flirting with danger (big change) with no plan to handle potential crises. Then we're scrambling to outrun the predicament I put us in, still unaware of how much worse things would get before they got better. A picture of my mother hugging me while I cried would be too literal. And I don't know what image might represent Grace and me now. I know we would look less complacent than in the first picture and less terrified than in the second. I hope I'm not naive, assuming the worst is over, and that our work now is to be thankful, optimistic and, of course, more regular, gastro-intestinally speaking. A friend told me I need to "get used to a new normal," which is apparently a longer process than I would like. I still sometimes wake up and think John is next to me, or I look at my watch and think he'll be home from work any minute. But those moments are fading, being replace by experiences that comprise our new normal. And it's not so bad.

Shit happens.

It seems to have taken over my life, however, and while I know this too shall pass (ha ha), I'M READY FOR IT TO PASS. Yesterday I saw my gastroenterologist, who happens to be young, handsome and hilarious — not exactly the kind of person I want to talk to about poop. He's also married with kids around Grace's age, so at least he uses words like "poop" and "turd" instead of "bowel movement" and "stool," which would be too much for me to deal with. Anyway, tomorrow I will have a colonoscopy, which means I cannot eat ANYTHING today, and a bunch of other gross stuff I won't go into. And while we're approaching this with a "better safe than sorry" attitude, a little part of my brain keeps remembering that my father had colon cancer three years ago. I hate that little part of my brain.

I also got a call from the Perfect Roommate, who has fallen in love with NW Portland and is trying to rent an apartment there. I can't blame her; in fact, I keep thinking, "Why didn't WE live there?" Then I remember it's hip, crowded, noisy, expensive and you can't park anywhere, and we were looking for a family neighborhood, something a bit more chill. I'm glad she's found a place that suits her, and we'll likely end up being friends, so it's wasn't a complete waste of time, but I haven't yet told Brady that she won't be seeing Boo again. Since I'm having second thoughts about the cohousing Ecovillage, I was kind of relieved that she wasn't rarin' to sign a lease and move in, but this puts the kibosh on two list items I thought I had settled: where I'll be living for the next six months and where I'll be living after that. What's best for Grace that I can afford? And that gets me thinking about the rest of the list — ring, job, book, etc. — and I want to curl up in bed.

I'm hungry.

Old business, new business

Here's what's on my plate right now (I hate that expression):

- scheduling our second round of divorce mediation
- finding some poor soul willing to counsel a divorcing couple and their troubled child
- finding a job
- finding a roommate or a cheaper place to live
- selling my ring without divulging my address and phone number (web scammers are CRAZY)
- getting Grace to poop in the potty, as opposed to in her pants, in the backyard, on the couch or on the rug
- figuring out why I can't stop shitting my own brains out (gosh, do you think it could be STRESS???)
- waiting to hear back from literary agent(s)
- working on my second novel during my free time, rather than curling up in bed in the fetal position
- taking advantage of that "new house warrantee" to figure out why our tap water is brown, our foundation is cracking and our electricity on the south side of the house keeps going all wonky.
- some family shit, too, but that's off limits, I suppose.

On a positive note, I'm lucky to have people in my life who surprise me with their ability to listen to me bitch and moan, seemingly without end. I hope it's because I've done the same for them, or they know I would. Some notable examples: my parents, who must have taken "Empathy 101" recently, because they know exactly what to say; J. Po, for his consistency and insight; Ella, for keeping me company me when she's got plenty to deal with in her own life; my sister-in-law, Annette, who reaches out when she must be in an awkward position; Leslie and Peter, with whom I would entrust my and Grace's lives; and anyone else who has taken the time to acknowledge the fact that my life is in some serious transition. Those who find it a bit much to deal with, I understand. My, my, that came out melodramatic. But I mean it sincerely.

Of course it's not that easy.

Exhibit A: Friday I met the prospective roommate (and her dog, Boo), loved her (and Brady loved Boo), and we planned for her to come back the following day to meet Grace and John. Then something happened that I never even considered: she called and bailed and said she was keeping her options open and she'd get back to me. So I guess I'll wait.

Exhibit B: Lots of nibbles on the ring, but no buyers. I can't part with it so quickly for under a certain amount. So I'll wait.

Exhibit C: I applied for a dream job for which I am perfectly qualified, maybe overqualified, and have heard nothing. Also the programming gig with Imbibe Magazine hasn't yet materialized. So I'll wait.

Exhibit D: Grace and I visited the site of the Columbia Ecovillage today for a tour of the condos (under construction), the farmhouse and the grounds. I anticipated lush, tidy gardens and eco-friendly homes. It was messy everywhere, and the condos will have ELECTRIC HEAT AND STOVES. The two bedroom unit I had my eye on was tiny, and will be carpeted. Thirty-seven households will share THREE washers and dryers in a communal laundry area. But Grace ran around under canopies of towering sunflowers, squealing with delight, picking sweet strawberries, huge blackberries and juicy grapes. Oh, the grapes. I had to drag her away from them, and the entire way home she cried, "I want more grapes! I want more grapes! I WANT MORE GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPES!" I'm torn. I'll think about it, and I'll wait.

Exhibit E: I go back to the doctor Wednesday to figure out why I haven't yet fully recovered from my tussle with food poisoning. I imagine there will be tests involved. And I'll fucking wait.