We Want Out!

June 3, 2013

To Whom It May Concern at ------- Property Management Company,

I am writing to request that we be released from our lease for unit -- on ---- Lane, without penalty. My husband and I moved there with our 6 month old son in November 2010. We are not pet owners, partly due to my husband's allergies. We are not smokers. Two units with the same floor plan came available at the same time; I viewed one of them but ended up renting the other because of its location within the community. Assured by management that it would be thoroughly cleaned before moving in, we took it. It turned out the previous renters were pet owners, and upon moving in, my husband immediately had problems breathing in the apartment unless he was within a few feet of a HEPA grade air purifier. He has never had a problem like this in places he has previously rented. There was a strong pet odor in the apartment, underneath whatever fragranced product had been sprinkled on the carpet. The first month we lived there, we had to have the carpet on the lower level torn out and replaced, and the subfloor "pet treated" for urine/allergens. Our first son is not allergic and has had no problems. 

Our second child was born February 2012. He developed relatively severe eczema beginning at 2 months. We have since learned that he has multiple, potentially life-threatening food allergies, as well as a few environmental allergies, including one to cockroaches. He has had issues with his breathing as well, with asthma-like attacks spurred by allergic responses (to what, exactly, it is often hard to tell). Our children do not go to preschool or day care, so they spend much of their time in the home with one of us. 

It has become very clear that this apartment is unsuitable for my younger son's health, and that we need to move out as soon as possible. There are pest problems and vermin problems. Last fall one afternoon, I was home alone with my toddler and baby, both of whom were feverish and sick. I had reported that I thought a squirrel had gotten into the apartment walls, that we were hearing noise in our kitchen ceiling (on the first floor of our 2 story town house). I was told that no one could come that day-there had been a maintenance emergency. I then heard a commotion through the grate in the kitchen wall, and distinctly heard the squirrel traveling through the air duct above the kitchen cabinets. I was then assured that there was no way for the animal to get into the apartment. Shortly after that phone call, the squirrel escaped under the mechanical closet door, into my living room. I ran out the back door with a sick child under each arm and no shoes on to the leasing/management office, where I left the kids so I could go open the front door to let the squirrel out (the office staff was reluctant to do anything without a maintenance worker). 

Meanwhile, we have been killing cockroaches as they appear (the big ones are the ones we get). I described them to your staff, who offered to spray our apartment as a solution. Given my baby's sensitive respiratory and immune system, I am unwilling to have pesticide sprayed in my home, and I agreed to have the exterior sprayed about a month ago. We have also trapped one mouse in the past month, but another has appeared recently and eluded the traps. Two nights ago, I caught sight of the mouse hopping across my clean dishes on the kitchen counter. In response, I moved a stack of clean baking sheets and cutting boards from the counter where we store them, by the area where we dry hand-washed dishes, and discovered a pile of what appears to be cockroach excrement. I took a photo of it before we cleaned the counter. (We are still actively trying to trap the mouse, as we see new evidence/droppings, showing where it has been going.)

I have to point out how heavily that small kitchen gets used, and why: because of my younger son's severe allergies, he is on an extremely restricted diet, as am I because he still breast feeds. We cannot eat any pre-packaged food with more than a few ingredients, and eating out is nearly impossible. My husband spends hours cooking and cleaning in the kitchen every day by necessity, making most of our meals from scratch (no bread because of a gluten allergy, no cheese because of a dairy allergy, no beans because they are too closely related to nuts and soy, nothing with corn or eggs in it, etc, etc...).

We need to be living in a home with a workable kitchen that is not infested with mice or cockroaches, and one with no carpet. It traps allergens, and is too hard on my son's skin and lungs, with him spending so much time so close to the floor. As to what sorts of exposure during my pregnancy lent themselves to my son's health problems is probably water under the bridge, although the off-gassing of chemicals that occurs with new carpet is upsetting in retrospect. Regardless, we HAVE to curb my son's allergic reactions as his immune system continues to develop. I am not willing to accept the frequency with which we have to medicate a 16 month old baby.

Our lease is up this November. I have my doubts that an older rental like this with shared walls can really be rid of its pests, at least not while it is occupied, and by a family with very young children at that. Clearly, the carpet is something that cannot be changed. I am seeking to move out in a month. Given the limited length of time left on our lease and the dramatic change in our family's needs for health reasons, I am hoping that ------ Property Management can comply with my request.

Respectfully,

Kirstin etc.

Celebrating Damon

Damon is my second child. He is a little boy, and he just turned one on February 2nd. We celebrated Damon last weekend while Mom was here- both his baptism and his first birthday.

I was raised in a church that mostly baptizes infants when they're still tiny, red and wrinkled. Jack certainly was, doused with water and anointed with oil at three weeks old. For Damon, I put it off for a handful of reasons. For one, about the time I was ready to schedule a baptism for him, at about 2 months old, an ugly rash suddenly spread across his cheeks. I (vainly) thought, I'd rather clear up his skin before we stand up in front of  a church full of people.

Little did I know how long that would take, and what it would involve (that's another story). 11 months later and his pale little cheeks are finally, reliably soft and clear. I cherish that little baby, but there is a lot more...gravity in our lives that accompanies being his parents.

I remember planning Jack's first birthday party. There was a buoyancy about it, like the bouquet of brightly colored balloons we bought for the celebration. We frenetically planned a guest list and a menu, racing around, bickering in our way about how it was all going to be completed (and paid for), all to say to our small world, our wonderful, perfect baby Jack is one year old! It was a party- friends, warm weather, food, photos, streamers, and those wonderful balloons- you'd hold the long ribbons of the bunch of them in your fist, and they would gently tug upwards, like having a fish on the line in the water. The wonder and happiness of having Jack floated above it all, above the buzzing around of our inexpert entertaining.

It was joyful. We drank champagne and ate quiche, and tried to get Jack to eat his birthday cake before he got too sleepy from a skipped morning nap. Guests came and went from our sun-drenched little rented townhouse like birds circling a chirpy little nest. It was shortly after Jack's birthday that I learned I was pregnant again.

This brings us back to Damon, born about 20 months after Jack. The day we baptized him was the only real fair-weather day the whole week Mom was here. We had beautiful sunshine that cast a pale warmth over the wet city. I ended up dressing Jack and Damon in matching, navy blue fleece pea coats and light-colored linen pants. Damon's white pants had been Jack's, and Jack's had turned up in a bag of handed-down clothing from any one of our friends and acquaintances (all through church) with a boy or two older than ours. Their older half-sister, Emmy, showed up with her dad wearing a fancy dress, black tights, and her wheat-colored hair in lovely, loose curls. Dennis wore the dark suit we bought him for our wedding, and the light blue tie from being a groomsman in his brother Steve's wedding, which was the same week as ours.

Damon was baptized in a room of red, white and gold: when I will look back in memory, I will see the white walls and arched ceiling of the sanctuary, with its tall, mullioned window panes of frosted glass and matching, arched and hinged white shutters, folded up like great birds' wings; the carpet is scarlet, a little worn but still very formal-looking. The white baptismal font opens to reveal a brilliant gold plate full of water, the flickering movement of which fascinated both boys. I passed Damon to the pastor, his legs held out stiffly in front of him during the hand-off. Our pastor cupped one big hand full of water, splashing over Damon's fuzzy head and pausing there reassuringly after each splash for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Damon didn't make a noise, just looked at that gold pool of water with eyes wide and curious as it dripped down his face and neck.

The rite of baptism doesn't last long, but feels to me dense with meaning- the dark green hymnal in my hand, the unison voice of the prayer and response of the congregation that surrounds us in community, the choir gathered in the balcony to the right of pipe organ, all in that light-filled room. As our other pastor introduced the service (he spoke on Paul), Damon looked up into that balcony, and with a sharp, far-sighted eagle gaze in his light blue eyes, called out to someone with recognition. This is likely really what happened, I'm telling you- Damon spends a lot of time up in that balcony with me, the choir, and that powerful organ.

So, that was the baptism of Damon Michael, at almost thirteen months- not quite talking, not quite walking, but very, very alert.

We spent a lot of time, care and love this past year, Damon's first year, identifying and diagnosing his health challenges- all of the chronic, allergic and respiratory type (again, another story). As self-employed and part-time employed musicians and music teachers, we haven't been actively participating in the economy for very long, so to speak, so this process has carried its own weight of concern making decisions about how to get Damon the health care he needs. Sometimes it's not as simple as just taking your child to the doctor. It also wasn't a simple matter of identification and treatment. These things sometimes reveal themselves slowly, and episodically. You react, make a change, treat a flare-up, and wait to see what happens as they get incrementally older, day by day.

I guess, in light of all of that, and with the illness of a good friend, we kept Damon's party small. But I wanted to celebrate him in spite of how worry-fraught his first year sometimes got. A close friend offered up her house in the South of the city, and in her congenial kitchen and dining room, with a few friends, we toasted Damon's sweet little face, his goofy ears, his mild nature. Dennis made an array of very hypoallergenic foods, including vegetarian sushi and cupcakes notable for all the ingredients they don't contain- my husband's own recipe. We drank tea and strong coffee, and wine.

For me, the whole party, the vividness of my love for my small children, family, and our life together, it has this chiaroscuro of sadness throughout. It reminds me of a trip I recently took- overnight to a conference for choral music in Atlanta, a half-day's drive from home. It was in a beautiful, sprawling Protestant church, and that night, there was a candle-lit Taize religious service. This trip was the first time I'd left Damon overnight, and to do so took a great deal of preparation and logistical planning (yet another story).

Raising your voice to God is at the heart of Taize services, and in a minimalist style, as the melody repeats over and over, congregants are free to come in and out and harmonize as they feel moved- to join or to be silent, to create a living song. Sitting there in the dark among flickering candles, I remember being so sad. I was away from my family, able to view my life from a step back, a city away, a day away, and I was feeling the stress of the year vibrating under my skin and pulsing behind my eyes. I was sending it in waves up into the high darkness above me, and as I grappled with it, I thought and prayed, it's all okay. Accept it. Just accept your life, whatever condition it is in. Quit fighting the sorrow. I see a lot of joy in my life outlined with sorrow right now. All I can do is focus on ridding myself of the feeling that something is wrong. I am very sad about certain very specific things, and I grieve about them. But in this life, it's all part and parcel, the sorrow and the joy.

And that baby Damon, he is darn cute and a lot of fun..

-Kirstin

Potty Training: A Stop Along the Way and what Happened There

On a whim I took my baby and toddler boy shopping at a certain children's thrift store today, which I won't name. I got there at 1:46 pm, only to read the sign taped to the door saying they will close at 2 due to winter weather. I poke my head in, saying, I’ll be quick. One male clerk behind the counter (the nice one) smiles and tells me, no problem, it’s all good. Or something like that. I park my toddler behind the carpeted wall barrier that marks off the designated play area (which keeps them from ransacking the merchandise the store is trying to sell.) I hurry off with my baby to quickly browse the sweaters and long sleeves that are marked down this late January day. (Wasn’t it just Christmas, when there were no real good deals to be had, unless you’re a masochistic Black Friday enthusiast?) Damon, my 11 month old, stands in front of the toys that are for sale, testing his stability and not doing much else. 

• I find some little leather slippers with frogs on them for him. Perfect! 
• A coordinating pant and tee set, and I think it’s a boutique brand. Nice!
• Aw, a Gymboree playsuit with a raccoon on the front... and a striped tail on the back? Yessss! 
• Baby clothes- (I cluck to myself) most of the time, they hardly get worn and then they outgrow it. They’re more pre-washed than pre-worn. 

The other clerk, (the colder one) passes by me, and I ask for confirmation that the shirts I am eyeing are indeed part of the buy-two, get-two-free sale (!!!). Making a sound in his throat to convey the inconvenience of my question (or my existence on this planet), he politely agrees, yes, they are on sale.

Alright. I throw Damon over my forearm so he’s looking at the floor, and a few brief cardigans and pullovers later, I’m checking out. I hear Jack in the play area, singing the ABCs and playing with the little green army men which were wedged in the play cash register drawer like military sardines in a can.

Just as I am about to head over there, I hear, “Mommy, I pooped. I pooped! And I peed. I’m wet!” I see the stain covering his pants and agree, yes, he is wet. @#$% (you know which expletive I mean). Damon is already nestled in the baby sling. I haul Jack back over the wall at arm’s length, taking care not to let any part of him touch that carpet that blankets it like a 70s rumpus room.

I survey the damage: The linoleum floor is a little wet, and it looks like one of the green army men took a hit. I pick it up, and order Jack to stay *right there* while I hurry off to the restroom in the back. I take the last of the paper towel, think for a second, rinse off the little army man, and leave him to dry on the edge of the sink (I mean, what would you do??).

Jack is continuing to inform me of his damp state. I make reassuring sounds, saying we’ll take care of it somewhere else. As I am laboriously leaning over that darned wall with my wad of cheap paper towel in hand, and Damon is protesting getting wedged between me and it, the 2nd clerk comes over and says, word-for-word, “If I may ask... what is *that*... on the floor?” (Did you not hear Jack’s store-wide announcement, Buster?) I pause, then, striving for understatement, I say, “well, he’s potty training.” Pause. “It looks like it’s just the floor that is a little wet.” He replies, “We’ll try to find SOME way to get it clean.” A little pee? Really?

I ask you, who is the most wretched one of us: 

1) me, the chagrined mother, who somehow naively deemed training pants to be optional when my poor little guy still can’t quite figure out where number 2 goes; 

2) the clerk, who just wants to get the *heck* home and who doesn’t want to accept that he works at a CHILDREN’S SECOND HAND STORE (which I love to patronize, by the way, no shame there... which is partly my point). What does he THINK is going to happen here- swingin’ and stylish twenty-somethings sloshing their martinis on the floor, while they flirt and exchange witticisms? 

3) or, poor Jack, who is wearing soggy Elmo underwear full of you-know-what, and will soon have his bare butt exposed to 25 degree weather and freezing rain, lying on the floor of the minivan, the door wide open, while I clean him up?

I'll end the story there to leave something to the imagination, but what I have to offer is this: Humility, people! This Lutheran is preachin’ humililty- a warm cup of it to go around! Think on it. Nothing makes a person humble like being in the toilet training trenches, rag in hand. Even if you haven't potty trained a small person, your mother, father grandmother, or other beloved caregiver did- for you.

Happy skidding cars and “wintery mix” from Charlotte, North Carolina!!