Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I made what I believed was the best decision for both Owen and myself by getting the hell out of that negative environment. Now we were living in a pink Victorian in San Francisco with six other people, including Lark.
It had definitely been the right call. All of my housemates were amazing people who’d welcomed us into their home and their lives with open arms. At the same time though, I felt lost, and not in the way I’d expected.
I’d known learning to take care of a baby would be overwhelming, but my confidence as a parent had grown a lot over the last three weeks. It helped that Yolanda, my landlady, was a pediatric nurse and infinitely patient with the million questions I kept asking her. It also helped that my brother and his boyfriend Dylan were the greatest uncles ever. They both wanted to be actively involved in taking care of the baby, which lifted a little of the weight off my shoulders.
But the odd thing about becoming a single parent overnight was that I felt like I’d suddenly disappeared, along with my carefully mapped out future. It went without saying that I loved my son and put him first. At the same time though, everything that used to matter to me—like my education—had fallen by the wayside, and it seemed to take my sense of self with it. I didn’t know who I was anymore, aside from Owen’s dad, and it had all happened so quickly that I was left reeling.
On top of that, even though I loved the pink Victorian and my housemates, living in San Francisco was a big adjustment. It was a very different city than L.A., where I’d spent all my life. Over three-quarters of a million people were crammed into a city that was roughly seven miles by seven. While L.A. sprawled, San Francisco squeezed together, and it felt more than a little frantic and claustrophobic.
But I was trying to learn to adapt and to love it, the way my brother and our housemates did. The only time the city didn’t feel overcrowded was very early in the morning (or very late, but I definitely wasn’t a night owl), so I made the most of the fact that Owen always woke up at dawn.
Pretty soon, I had our routine down to a science. In just a few minutes, I could get the baby changed, fed, and bundled up, and then off we’d go. My housemates had thrown me an informal baby shower when I first moved in, and Lark and Dylan’s gift of a jogging stroller was the best thing ever. It gave me the freedom to go out and explore while getting some fresh air and exercise. Fortunately, the baby loved it as much as I did.
San Francisco in the early morning hours was actually pretty great. There was a calmness and stillness to the city that vanished as soon as people started waking up and making their way to work. I could get lost in my thoughts while Owen happily went along for the ride, looking adorable in the red fleece hat and jacket I’d bought him, all cozy and tucked in with a soft, fluffy blanket.
It was April, and some mornings fog hung thick in the air, making the city feel romantic and mysterious. On other days, the sunrise would give way to a sky that was the most extraordinary shade of blue. Both were beautiful.
I’d start off by walking a few blocks to warm up, and then I’d begin to run. Back when I was on the high school track team, I used to do this every day before school. Then college, work, and life in general started demanding most of my time, and I’d gotten out of the habit. That had been a mistake though, and now I remembered why I’d loved to run. It cleared my head, challenged me, and made me feel like I was becoming stronger than the day before.
My morning ritual meant so much to me that Owen and I did this seven days a week. As I built up my endurance, we went farther and farther. I lived in a part of the city called the Mission District, an interesting neighborhood which historically had been home to a lot of Latino families. From that starting point, our routes spread out into the city in every direction, like spokes on a wheel.
As I discovered my neighborhood’s unique quirks and character, my opinion of San Francisco improved. I was drawn to the eccentric, like the tiny art installation I found tucked away in an alley, the house painted with a huge mural of a tiger, and the little old lady who swept her front steps every morning while carrying on a loud conversation with someone named Arthur—who wasn’t there.