Stress Test

It's interesting to see how people handle stress. Stress, in the psychological sense, is a handy fairly modern word from stringo (?) which covers a lot of phenomena. For example, I am considering buying a house this week. This decision is straining, stretching, stringing, and altogether stressing (maybe it's from distressing) me. A LOT of money rests on this decision, and it's stressful to think about sums with so many zeroes after them. The idea of being responsible for the upkeep of a property weighs heavily on me. I am keenly aware that I know very little about evaluating real estate or real estate transactions, and I'm trying not to be taken advantage of. The amount of money we'd spend in closing costs will probably tie us down the Rochester area (which we love) for several years, but if we don't buy a house we're going to waste thousands of dollars in rent that could be building equity. This all forms a roiling knot of stress in the pit of my stomach, and I'm not handling it particularly well. I'm being more than usually braggy and stupid in pretty much every conversation I have with J, and I am highly distracted.

Thi is how our typical house-hunting conversation goes:

J: Oh, take a look at this one.
R: Which one?
J: This one. I'll send it to you.
R: Didn't you send this one earlier?
J: No, that was the other one.
R: Okay, I've got it.
J: Actually, this one is really nice too.
R: Wait a sec, I just got the other one.
J: Which one?
R: The white one.
J: Which white one? I sent you two.
R: Wait, what?
J: Oh, check out the back yard on this one?
R: The second white one?
J: No, this one's a little further north. It's by that other one I sent you.
R: Wait, what?

To be fair, this is how J remembers that conversation:

J: Oh, I like this one. I'm sending it to you now. It's a red colonial off of Winton. Will you send it to the realtor if you like it?
R: <watches the Bills game in stony silence>
J: Has it come in yet?
R: <sighs, then glances at phone and makes noncommital noise>
J: Okay, well I'm going to send you another one too. This one is towards the top of our price range, but it has a really nice yard.
R: Dangit.
J: Do you think that's too expensive?
R: No, EJ just looks terrible.
J: You know this is only the preseason
R: <watches the beer commercials in silent sorrow>

J is also stressed. She is stressed about the house, and she is stressed about pushing an enormous 30 pound baby out of 10 centimeter aperture in less than three months, and she is stressed about not fitting into any of her clothes any more. In my opinion, this should be the least stressful stressors of all the stressings, because she still looks great and she went back to being skinny really quick after she gave birth to James. But it's not my stress, so I don't get any say in how she deals with it, which is fair. For a while I was extolling the strength of her charms and in her particular the ample preparations that mother nature makes for a soon-to-be nursing mother, but then after several subtle hints (like being told directly) I discerned that constantly and tactlessly hitting on J like a randy teenager might not be particularly what she needs to feel de-stressed these days. What she needs to feel de-stressed, after four weeks of vacation food, is lots of fruits and vegetables plus daily walks and yoga. The switch from camp food and Grandma's house to fruits and vegetables brings us to our last member of the household:

James, who just got back from four weeks of vacation, is having a stressful re-entry into normal life. Between Csehy, the cabin, and Grandma's house, he ate snacks just about whenever he wanted, was always able to find a doting adult who could look after his every need, did lots of fun and exciting new things every day, and pretty much forgot about his whole schedule of going to bed at a reasonable time of night. So far he has thrown food at both of us, refused to eat three meals, and dumped every single box of neatly organized toys into heaps on the floor. (Last week's dream of a clean house seems so far away.) He screams and cries whenever I practice, he's talking back, and he's giving violent resistance to the new potty-training and healthy eating routines, and has started referring to every object that enters his brain with the possessive first personal pronoun. ("Daddy, I'm'a go into my yiying room [living room] and watch George on my TV with my George and eat my ice cream on my couch.")

So, we're going to try not to hurt each other over the next few weeks. Probably in three months time most of this will be forgotten. We'll be in a clean and spacious three bedroom house in the suburbs that looks to appreciate 10% every year, J will be a svelte and glowing mother of a beautiful boy (born perfectly healthy at 5 lbs, 1 oz) and James will be a proud big brother munching on organic vegetables as he welcomes you at the door and tells you that you are not welcome in "his" house.