That Moving Feeling
Yes, we are fortunate among the many New Yorkers who torment each other in even less space. But my acceptable-square-feet-for-raisin'-up-a-family scale is tainted by the grand suburbias of the west where I found perfect isolation for desperate pre-, mid-, and post-pubescent breakdowns. In my big bedroom I was left quite alone to quietly confront the freakshow that was my bosom. For one tearstained solid year in front of a suburban full-length door mirror, I watched my right breast grow to a gropeable size while my left breast (wisely) clung to the predictable plains of childhood. Oh, the beauty of fourteen.
Now, I watch Emmie, 9 1/2, from the corner of my eye. We all do, for how can we not? Where can she go? To dress, she has taken to standing with her back to everybody while one hand covers her no-news chest and another works a shirt over her head. Closed doors are meaningless, because she knows that the minute she shuts a door, Boone will hear it and come barging in. It is his room too.
She has hung sheets around her lower bunk, carefully tucking them under the upper mattress and pinning the openings shut. Such a tiny tent for the upcoming freakshow.
Naturally, then, we are occasionally looking at real estate, usually in a not as expensive area for the best run-down bigger house we can get for the buck. I am intrigued with this house, although the realtor tells us that there is nothing left inside. I think we're talking about a carcass, a carcass which we would need to share with renters to make the mortgage. But darn it. My daughter deserves her own little space in which to privately view her own upcoming freakshows, audience of one. (Or two, if I can get a ticket.)
(On the other hand, we could move to Tokyo and live in one of these modules for around the same price. Freaky.)