In the darkest center of our IF voyage, right after my first IVF attempt (which ended in a non-viable chemical pregnancy and led to our discovery that I had an unusual type of ovarian failure), my husband and I handled what I recognize now was serious grief by doing something very, very stupid.
We decided to move out of the suburbs and bought the least child-friendly condo you can imagine in the heart of a large city. In 2006. May 2006. Which was the absolute height of the market. As you know.
The condo is tiny, a third story walk-up, has no outside space and there’s no elevator. Worst of all, our laundry is in the garage, three stories down from our apartment (infant and toddler twins generate A LOT of laundry). Our condo has to be one of the least convenient places to live with infant and then toddler twins. I was by myself with them most of the time, and if I wanted to take them for a walk, I would have to carry one down the stairs, put them in the stroller in the lobby, RUN back up the stairs to get the other one, then carry them down the stairs as well. Completely nerve-wracking. After living there for two years, we cried uncle and decided to put up the place for sale.
I like to think that my husband and I are pretty intelligent, thoughtful people. We generally are very responsible adults, and tend to use very lengthy pro and con lists to make even the smallest decisions. So why did we make such a large error when it came to what is the biggest decision you can make?
All I can say is that seeing nothing but babies, strollers and school age children, which happened many times every day in the suburbs, was crushing my soul. I felt constantly humiliated, and seeing the million pregnant women around me all the time was particularly hurtful. I was unable to look to a brighter future, or even the future at all. I wanted to live somewhere where I could live in the present, and if it was an area with few to no children, so much the better.
Of course we should have rented. All I can say about that is that the places that we looked at to rent were as expensive as our mortgage and they were grimy depressing places where the landlord has painted over the windows and doors so many times that you can barely open them.
All this is a long-winded way to say that after 8 months, our condo is in escrow. And thus, I hope, will close a painful chapter in our lives.