This morning sees me sitting on our new porch, wild berry tea in hand, some laundry drying as I type and my baby sound asleep a few doors down the hall. Almost as soon as Ainslie and I got to New Hampshire, I realized that um, she's eleven months old. Which freaks me out for a few reasons:
1. She's ELEVEN. MONTHS. OLD. That's only one month away from 12 months, which is a year.
1a. That was when we first got here. Now, her birthday is less than a week away. Aaaaah!
2. She gets into absolutely everything, which I try to encourage as much as possible without being reckless. How is she supposed to learn about the world by sitting in a little bubble of baby-proofedness all the time?
3. The aforementioned two points would have made living with the friend we were supposed to live with a constant chorus of, "Ainslie, don't touch that please. Don't touch that either. Here, come sit in this box and don't touch anything."
A solo apartment was just easier. So, in a whirlwind two days, I found one. And it's awesome. It's the perfect size, in a nice neighborhood that I feel safe in, and I can paint the walls! So I have, and it is glorious.
The only downside to my own personal Taj Mahal: spiders.
My mom noticed them first, mentioning to me one day that there were a few on the outside of the front door. Then I noticed them. Then I noticed one on my living room carpet. Then I noticed a spider bite on Ainslie's leg and declared WAR. I went to the property manager and asked to have the doorway sprayed, which I realized didn't happen when the spiders came back after three days. Then I decided it was REALLY WAR. Upon finding one spidering around in the entryway, I squashed it under my shoe and tossed its little spider body out onto the landing, Mexican drug cartel-style, as a warning to the others. And ever since this formal declaration of my intentions to wipe them off the face of the earth (or at least my doorway), I've been worried that they're going to launch a counteroffensive, working through the night to spin one of those super powerful webs in front of my door so that I can't get out in the morning, or at the very least walk into it and spend the next year with the heeby jeebies.
Now the only thing that would make my palace complete is my stuff. Which is still in Alaska, or somewhere in Nebraska, or maybe sitting in a warehouse at some random moving company down the street I don't know, the movers won't tell me anything. More about that later.