I’m sitting in a sparcely furnished two bedroom apartment on the west side of Los Angeles. City views surround me, traffic hums on the street below me while helicopters hover above and the air is cool. I’m home.
We recently moved to Westwood after stints in the suburbs and Phoenix. This neighborhood isn’t new to me though. I spent ten years in this area—during college, during my first marriage, and during my divorce. I’m not sure what it is about these tree-lined streets that makes me so comfortable. Yes, it can be noisy, the traffic can suck, and the parking is scarce but despite all of this, I love it here. I feel like I belong; that this is where I’m supposed to be.
And it probably is. In the week that we’ve been here I’ve driven my car three times (to LAX and to the recycling center, not really walkable destinations; the third was to Target and it is just too far to walk). Baby A is getting used to riding in his stroller and the Baby Bjorn multiple times a day. [Editor Note: I don’t like to drive.] Even though summer is here, I’ve been able to wear black and not feel like the member of some Goth band. In addition, we experienced a typical week in Westwood—ran into celebrities, witnessed a host of protests and heard the helicopters covering a news story (Unfortunately, it was the death of Michael Jackson)—though it doesn’t seem normal for most areas of the country.
What’s more: My family is happier. M. is doing a job he loves. Baby A is sleeping more (it could be all the fresh air). And while Moo and Pumpkin are still getting used to the city noises, both are eating better and socializing more. So maybe it wasn’t just me who felt out of sorts and needed a different energy around her.