Up the stairs, down the stairs.

this woman has lost her mind

I haven't lived in a house for many, many years. I grew up in a house, a brownstone, with lots of stairs. Andrew grew up in a house too. But as young things in NYC, we lived in apartments.

First: Little, tiny apartments: my first apartment after college was a 4th floor walk up studio with a crack-addict neighbor and a mouse problem. But it had brick walls and a view of the city skyline. I loved it. Ah, liberty and independence!

Then: Spacious pre-war apartment in a far flung neighborhood. Oh, the space. Oh, the closets. Oh the elevator that sometimes broke down and the smelly damn basement laundry room. Oh, the crazy Russian neighbors and the Sabbath siren and the "what could this be?" labeled-in-Hebrew groceries.  I loved it. Andrew and I opened our wedding presents in that apartment.

Lastly: Brand spanking new condos with roof gardens. (This one hurts a little. I really did love that apartment.) Andrew and I brought our children home to that apartment. We recorded their crazy rapid post-adoption growth spurts on the kitchen wall.  We out grew that apartment a little bit too fast for my heart.

And now we live in a house. A house with lots of stairs. When I'm downstairs I remember I need something upstairs, and then I reconsider just how much I need it. When I'm upstairs I realize the dishes really don't need to be done and I'll just send that email from my phone, oh this bed is so lovely and soft.  When I'm downstairs I hear the kids thumping around and I cross my fingers they are happy thumps and not breaking-things thumps. When I'm upstairs and hear screaming from downstairs I do the same thing.

There is a constant little pile of things at the top and the bottom of the stairs. These dirty socks need to go upstairs. These Barbies need to go downstairs. It got so I needed little baskets on the steps. Baskets that everyone else trips over and that only I think to carry up/down the stairs.

Installing a dumb waiter or a pulley system has crossed my mind. Intercoms are not out of the question. Sometimes I text Andrew from upstairs to remind him of something. Sometimes just to say hi.

This may be the silliest First World problem ever. But it is bothering me: how to live happily on two floors. And soon to be three floors...

Soon we'll have a finished basement- another staircase and another place to wonder, What kind of screaming/thumping is that?

I'm going to need another set of cute little baskets.