Hard Living
We’ve made our mark on this corporate apartment. Marks on windows, marks on walls, marks on carpet, marks on tables, marks on pretty much every surface that has the potential of coming into contact with babyhands. Though they provided us with a two-bedroom apartment for our unexpectedly lengthy stay here, this apartment is normally set up for a roommate situation. Each bedroom is marked as the “red” room or the “blue” room, and Andrew and I have keys on lanyards corresponding to each color. This is not an apartment where a lot of real-life living goes on. It’s a place where engineers from around the world crash for a month or two while they work on projects here in Mountain View, with roommates cycling in and out.
We, however, have lived here. And any living done with a baby around is hard living. The furnishings here are not what you’d call built for the ages, and the kitchen provisions are far from our top-quality things back home. They are, in fact, quite cheap, and when you have a baby, when you’re cooking three times a day, cheap wears quickly. We’ve used the spatula so much that a strip of plastic came off the edge this morning. The frying pan seems gray with use. Surely the five dishes in the cupboard haven’t ever seen this much rotation.
Our weekly housekeeper has been doing a spectacular job—sticky baby handprints are, for a blessed few minutes, absent from the coffee table. But the housekeeper doesn’t see the hidden sticky handprints—in places she surely isn’t used to looking when she does her cleaning of these executive apartments. There are sticky handprints on the window where Lucia stands, hands pressed against glass, to smile and wave goodbye to Andrew when he catches the shuttle to work every morning. There are sticky handprints on the front and sides of the faux leather armchair where Lucia cruises in between bites during meals. There is banana stickiness ground into the carpet and couch. There are sticky handprints on the cupboard doors where she stands and cruises underfoot while I’m doing things in the kitchen.
I honestly don’t know how this apartment will ever recover.
We have used everything in this apartment to its fullest capabilities and have done quite well; we’ve cooked meatloaf, quesadillas, mac and cheese, chicken piccata, meatballs, and lots more. Terrible knives and one tiny cutting board have become our life. It’s easy to get sucked into corporate-apartment land and forget about what a real home is like. When we went to the Clarks’ for Thanksgiving, though, we were reminded—a beautifully set table outside in a beautiful backyard, a full feast of food in an abundance of bowls and platters, a house full of toys, not just a tiny corner. Lucia was in heaven. I don’t think I picked her up once all afternoon. She just played and played and played, by herself and with the other kids, thrilled (as we were) to be among friends and the things of real life.
Lucia has lived thirteen months on this earth; nearly four of those months have been in corporate apartments. Does she remember her crib, with her pink-bird sheets? Does she remember all the toys—the legions of toys—that once occupied her days?
We’re ready to go home. Soon, soon, I hope…
We, however, have lived here. And any living done with a baby around is hard living. The furnishings here are not what you’d call built for the ages, and the kitchen provisions are far from our top-quality things back home. They are, in fact, quite cheap, and when you have a baby, when you’re cooking three times a day, cheap wears quickly. We’ve used the spatula so much that a strip of plastic came off the edge this morning. The frying pan seems gray with use. Surely the five dishes in the cupboard haven’t ever seen this much rotation.
Our weekly housekeeper has been doing a spectacular job—sticky baby handprints are, for a blessed few minutes, absent from the coffee table. But the housekeeper doesn’t see the hidden sticky handprints—in places she surely isn’t used to looking when she does her cleaning of these executive apartments. There are sticky handprints on the window where Lucia stands, hands pressed against glass, to smile and wave goodbye to Andrew when he catches the shuttle to work every morning. There are sticky handprints on the front and sides of the faux leather armchair where Lucia cruises in between bites during meals. There is banana stickiness ground into the carpet and couch. There are sticky handprints on the cupboard doors where she stands and cruises underfoot while I’m doing things in the kitchen.
I honestly don’t know how this apartment will ever recover.
We have used everything in this apartment to its fullest capabilities and have done quite well; we’ve cooked meatloaf, quesadillas, mac and cheese, chicken piccata, meatballs, and lots more. Terrible knives and one tiny cutting board have become our life. It’s easy to get sucked into corporate-apartment land and forget about what a real home is like. When we went to the Clarks’ for Thanksgiving, though, we were reminded—a beautifully set table outside in a beautiful backyard, a full feast of food in an abundance of bowls and platters, a house full of toys, not just a tiny corner. Lucia was in heaven. I don’t think I picked her up once all afternoon. She just played and played and played, by herself and with the other kids, thrilled (as we were) to be among friends and the things of real life.
Lucia has lived thirteen months on this earth; nearly four of those months have been in corporate apartments. Does she remember her crib, with her pink-bird sheets? Does she remember all the toys—the legions of toys—that once occupied her days?
We’re ready to go home. Soon, soon, I hope…
Comments