Good-Bye Bar Crawl! Hello Neighbors!

Good-Bye Bar Crawl! Hello Neighbors!Good-Bye Bar Crawl! Hello Neighbors!Good-Bye Bar Crawl! Hello Neighbors!Good-Bye Bar Crawl! Hello Neighbors!Good-Bye Bar Crawl! Hello Neighbors!Good-Bye Bar Crawl! Hello Neighbors!Good-Bye Bar Crawl! Hello Neighbors!Good-Bye Bar Crawl! Hello Neighbors!Good-Bye Bar Crawl! Hello Neighbors!Good-Bye Bar Crawl! Hello Neighbors!

F inding our new home…..

The New: a window with a view

The first time I really left good ol’ Kentucky (for good, not just a paternal visit) I was enraptured, transfixed, and spellbound by both the cityscape and the carnival of people in my new neighborhood. Pittsburgh’s South Side was a sanctuary of collegiate bars and stoop-sitting fogies.  I instantly fell in love with the stench of life layered upon layers of itself; The struggling artists, privileged entrepreneurs, crusty vagrants, transient students, and old world relics all meshed into one little community that defined the southern edge of the illustrious Three Rivers.  I relished the sensation of acid rain washing over me when I ran through the streets as the gutters poured waterfalls from the rooftops…

A day after delivering our first child and moving in on the same day.

Ugh, that was gross. Okay– Now I am not nearly as entranced by the grime as I was in my college days. I have lived in greater metropolises since, but the prospect of permanently leaving this little urban hamlet for an alternate, quieter hamlet leaves me feeling a bit nostalgic. I have already owned two homes on the South Side.  It was there that I got knocked up (all three times), and to there that I brought home my baby chicks.  HOWEVER, now I need a farm for my flock of chickens.  Therefore,  I am bidding adieu to my dear South Side in order to relocate in the East End, né Highland Park, where my quaint little acre-plus yard is nestled between the zoo, community athletic fields, and scattered urban squalor.

The Old: When a developer blocked our windows, Lyra was my sunshine

Our quest for the “right” new home has been a year-long epic journey. We almost moved to Hampton Township , which I graciously referred to as “the Hamptons”, despite the fact that housing plans named for woodland  geographic features  bear absolutely no resemblance to palatial beach-front estates. I barely survived the ensuing anxiety attacks as I pictured my formerly-fabulous self settling in to the suburbs. Fate, or really a series of missteps and disappointments, led us to our “grown-up” home.

The road to Green Acres began last year, whilst I was pregnant with my third bundle of joy within four years. I watched in horror as our Energy Star-certified townhome developer erected yet another dwelling that blocked our eastern view of the sky, the morning sun, and the rest of the urban landscape that was so comforting to our city-loving brood. It must be said that Patrick and I believe in “green” construction, and that huge windows and bountiful natural light make for happy families and less wasted resources. The developer, who shall not be named, sold us a gloried cave with little built-in lighting, convincing us that all we needed was blue skies and floor lamps.

The Old: nature decals on our window

When I recounted the experience on my blog, I was threatened with a slander suit. It seems I had no right to voice my concerns regarding the marketing fan-dance that sucked us in. Now I am known by the Home Owners Association as the crazy, loud mouthed housewife who lets her kids wreak havoc on the symbiosis of the perfectly planned concrete and glass community with their cartoon stickers and window markers.  The shame!

Yes, for some of my genteel neighbors I am a desperate housewife who must certainly be a hormonal sexpot, since I keep getting knocked up. I am flattered really. Anyone who thinks that my husband and I have tons of sex with three small children in a two-bedroom home must have quite a vivid imagination.

The truth is, Patrick and I are constantly in survival mode, and sometimes we build up exactly the right amount of tension that commands us to find fifteen minutes and remind ourselves of the glue that binds us, sort of literally. His mortar and my bricks built our home. It is a lovely home really, born from desire and held up by, dare I say, love.

In the last days before we moved, we ambled along the riverfront, dodging  cyclists on the sidewalk and  dog poop in the grass with our little troop, readying ourselves for the next great chapter in our marriage – a yard and a pool.

The Old: urban pebble patch

So with this entry into our story I say so long to drunks, college kids, crusty river punks, the twinkle of Downtown, the symphony of trains, barges, and boats. And I say hello to the professors, college grads, physicians, teachers, artists, and liberals, as my dad would say, that are all probably drunk, albeit less publicly (and on premium booze,) living on the edge of the City’s limits.

The home we bought is exactly that– a home. We had the unique privilege of getting to know the sellers and, really, they chose us. They wanted to bequeath their home to a family with young children who would appreciate the tire swing, the woods, the climbing tree, and the magical architecture of an English cottage tucked away on a cobblestone street inhabited by gnomes and fairies.

The New: a forest

I will miss being one of the only women exploring my ‘hood with a double stroller and/or a baby strapped to her chest amongst the night-crawlers  but it’s the right time. I am ready to dance in the rain with the grass beneath my feet and see the stars again. And if the trees are too thick to see those stars, then I have but to gaze into their toddler beds–  or my bed because that is where they feel most at home, snuggled in lumps.

A good reason to move – lots of love.

BTW- thank God we are getting a king-sized bed for the new house!  We are suckers for attachment parenting or as I like to think of it – a pile of snoring love.

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