Welcome back!

Cue voiceover as a row of cornfields scrolls across the screen:

"It's been a long-ass time since we last saw our dishevelled hero lugging a kid, a cat, two cars, and 17,000 pounds of crap across the country."

All of which would be true. Six Seven weeks ago, we were still in California, not worrying about whether it'd be a sweltering 98 degrees with 85% humidity outside, or whether Pupselkind needs to pack the rainboots for preschool because a thunderstorm might drench the roads with 4 inches of water and lower the temperature to a balmy 66 degrees. Six Seven weeks ago, we were packing stuff in boxes, rugdoctoring carpets, patching up walls (hoping that the shade of white would be a close match), and cleaning out cars for transport. We were throwing stuff away and giving stuff away and, at least in the case of yours truly, falling into the deep hole of "Sh*t, I just quit my perfectly good, well-paid job to go on to ... what, exactly?"

The good news is: We have arrived. Sort of. We're still in our rental home, henceforth to be termed The Cave because it's old, dark, and, well, cavernous, and closing on our new home, henceforth to be termed The Money Pit, sometime near the end of this month. Little Miss Kickboxer is officially in pre-preschool because, well, State regulations apparently prohibit any child younger than 3 in actual preschool, so I'm doing my best to keep her interested in math, reading, and writing while we chomp at the bit to get her learning again. TBIK is in his fabulous new job where he gets to be Wise and Important. And I, um, have a nice title in a temporary part-time job and make about 30% of what I used to make in California. So, come on over, and I'll treat you to a stick of gum. Which you will be expected to return at the end of your visit, so I can roll it out for the next person.

To tell you that The Big Move(R) was probably one of the most stressful things I've ever done, and certainly much more stressful than leaving Germany for this country some 16 years ago, is an understatement. Then, I had had a living situation lined up, together with a job with a regular paycheck and health insurance, and a clear perspective of how that move was going to make me a bigger and better person and a university professor at the end. It was my move, my thing.

This move wasn't; it was TBIK's thing. And it's shaken me to the core. I spent weeks barely being able to make it out of bed during the day, get dressed and go to a job interview or two, or write cover letters to companies screening candidates for "present employment" status--and nights crying until there were no more tears left. That's how scared and pulverizing it felt to fall into the jobless hole, with some brainless idiot or the other spouting cliches like "but there's so much opportunity around, Chicago, South Bend and stuff." Newsflash: Not in the rust belt, where more companies are downsizing and closing than in the coastal states. And certainly not when you're unemployed.

That was the bad news part. It lasted until last Monday, when I stepped into my new office, logged on to my new computer, registered my new email address, and updated my resume with "August 2011 to present." Then I started working, and I haven't stopped since--and I'm a better person and certainly a better, happier mother for it. Fine, jobwise, some things need to happen to ensure the 50% appointment turns into a little bigger piece of the pie and the temporary turns into regular, but I'm confident that I can do this quickly. The most important thing is: I get to contribute to my own retirement fund AND, yes, own my own paycheck. Believe me:

A woman needs a room of her own. Not just physically, of course, or intellectually, but also financially. Being financially dependent, to me, is suffocating. Having to ask for $20 spending money, just for a few odds and ends, and receiving them with a wry smile, has given me a taste of the soul-crushingness other women go through wondering what parts of their dignity they're selling today. It's also given me a good reminder of--albeit in this case self-inflicted--patriarchal structures; maybe one that I really needed. Was this what I wanted to model for my daughter, this image of the dependent, politically weak, subservient wife? Heck, no. When Daddy goes to work, Mommy goes to work, too, and the angelchild goes to her work aka (pre-pre)school. We all do the same thing; we all contribute to some sort of social-professional circle, even if the only thing we do is bring the cicadas we found in the park into the pre-preschool classroom (because hell, those creepy things *had* to get out of the house!). We all have rooms in which we can be independent, whether it's TBIK's sprawling top-floor suite with the secretaries out front, whether it's Little Miss Kickboxer's pre-preschool classroom with her cubby and picture wall, or whether it's my fabulous old-skool hard-doored real-daylight-windowed office across from the broken water fountain. A room. My own.

Welcome back!