Until we move out of our THIRD-freaking-FLOOR apartment! Sigh.
We’ve lived here for four years. It’s been a great four years, we’ve loved almost everything about it. Except for the hike it takes to get from the car up to our place. It wasn’t any big deal before we had Evelyne, they were just a few stairs. Then when I was pregnant, it got a little more difficult. I would be totally out of breath by the time I unlocked our door, but again, I just counted it as a little needed exercise.
Then we had Evelyne. Now for those of you who don’t have kids, let me tell you that you spend most of the first year hauling them around in carseats since they easily go from house to car and back. Our carseat weighs around maybe 10 pounds without a child in it, give or take a few. Then you put a baby in it and it gets heavy real fast. Now imagine carrying that, along with a big diaper bag, awkwardly down two flights of stairs. (oh yeah, and then squeezing it in the backseat of a two-door car.) When Ev was about 9 months old she started getting heavy enough that it was stupid to carry the carseat up and down the stairs, the convenience was gone, so we just got her out and carried her. Again, for awhile it wasn’t a big deal because she’s a pretty light kid. Until recently.
Now she weighs 20-something pounds. I’m not sure how many, but I would guess 22-23 or so. (which is still pretty small for her age!) And now that I’m pregnant and get tired even more quickly, this is about to push me over the edge. Usually it’s not THAT horrible until it gets to grocery day. Heavens to betsy.
I try to get everything out of my trunk that has to go in the freezer/fridge immediately and leave the rest for Clay when he gets home from work. Still, that usually ends-up being two gallons of milk and several more bags, plus a diaper bag, plus Evelyne. Up to the third floor. I almost die every time. (Oh, and I’m totally leaving-out the part where I crawl in the backseat of my two-door car to get her out of her carseat and awkwardly squeeze both of us out…oh, and the heat. But that’s another story for another day…) Then we get upstairs and she gets mad because she doesn’t want to go inside since she loves “going bye-bye,” and I wrestle her and the groceries in the door before I collapse on the floor. No, wait… collapsing is what I wanted to do, making her lunch while she pitched a fit on the kitchen floor was what actually happened. Yeah. That’s right. Sigh.