I am moorless. I am floating without any place to tie me down. I go on, day to day, and the kids are fed and bathed, but I am empty of definition.
When I first married, I changed my name, on the principle that if I was going to have the same last name as a man, it may as well be one I actually liked. After a few months, my maiden name no longer felt like it belonged to me, but my married name still felt like clothes with the tags on.
That is sort of how I feel right now. I think Zachary feels the same way, because he is acting out and playing food games, trying to claim control in at least one corner of his life. But, for once, this will be a post about me, not my kids, and about how I am adjusting.
And the answer is: not well. It has nothing to do with Los Angeles or California. It has to do with too much uprooting and not enough time in one spot. When we were in London, we were still tied to Philadelphia. That was where we had left and, although London was temporary, Philly was a home base.
But now, I am not from Philadelphia. I did not grow up there, I have no family there, and my friendships there have weakened with time and distance. I am not from London, which was always a temporary home. I am not from Los Angeles, that is certain.
Nor is there anything here that is mine. People tell me that my kids define me or I am meeting people through them. Great. But that is theirs. It is not me and it is not mine. My husband has his work, and he is trying to get his sea legs, which means late hours and a lot of stress. I need to support him as he integrates himself into this office. I need to support the kids as they find their lives here.
“Support,” however, is not my strong suit.
So, I sit here in a temporary apartment with a temporary phone and no permanent friends and temporary childcare. And I try to solidify Jello.