Aside from stories, I don’t sell anything. Photographs, art, books, scripts, words, I sell. I don’t sell out people or cameras I’ve outgrown, mostly because I’m loyal and lazy—though, not necessarily in that order. I’m not a I’m not a commercial real estate agent, I also don’t sell houses, glass or otherwise. But…
But I need to rent a house in Boca Raton for a year, and we’re willing to side-step a broker (keeping the owner from paying the fee). This blog, and more pointedly its readers, have always been a remarkable source for my family. I’m not speaking in advertising dollars but in support, in friendship, and in wisdom. I felt less alone in all of it. Whatever “it” was. Being single. Moving to Texas. Having sex. Not having sex. Fertility challenges. Pregnancy. NICU nights. Lucas’s brain surgery. Phil’s heart surgery. Giving up Linus. Taking up with Bikini. Feeling like a traitor. Wanting to pass Phil’s testicles over a French mandoline.
Once strangers, and readers, some of my closest friends have become just that because of this Greek Tragedy blog. Hell, I met my husband through this small white screen! And once again, you’ve reached out to me, offering advice on schools, synagogues, babysitters, restaurants, and communities. Thank you! You fukcing rock. Seriously.
A facebook friend and reader has introduced me to her family, truly warm, understanding, welcoming people. They have a home in Woodfield Country Club, and although they’d planned on selling their house, not renting, they were willing to rent to us for the year. Win win. We agreed on a price, terms, all of it. Then, not Phil, but I was terrified.
Because the house has a pool.
No, this has nothing to do with my wiggling my bod into a swim suit and everything to do with my fears of accidental drownings. It is my greatest fear. Not just my own children, but if another child comes to our home to play. You can’t look away for a second. I’m sick even writing this. The though of lifeless bodies, sprawled, floating, hanging, at the bottom of a pool. “With twins, one follows the other in.” I can’t, CAN’T, take it. Locking doors with bolts, adding alarm systems, it’s not enough. I’ve heard stories of kids that found their way out of the house through the garage, and within moments, it’s all too late.
If there’s a pool, there simply must be a child safety fence put up. Only to put one up, the installer must drill small holes into the decking, and some homeowners, understandably, aren’t comfortable doing that. So, now, we’re figuring out our next move (literally). So, if you know of anything, anyone, we’d love to know. In the meanwhile, I’m here in Austin, stalking Gwen Hurst for her intensive (read: Nazi-esque) swim lessons, once again.
