I've been keeping a zipped lip about something big. We're moving. As in, we've moved. Ish.

As I write this I'm in temp digs in Crabtown, staying at my Crabgrandpa's vacation apartment with Crabtot. Crabhub has already gone, to start a new job in our new city, and the movers have packed up our house and trundled it off to a distant metropolis in the west. (Not the house. I mean, houses can't move. Oh, wait. Some of them can. But I think you know what I meant. Our stuff is all gone. Only Crabtot and I remain, hanging for a few loose-end-tying weeks.)

Those of you who have followed the life of this blog know that I began it as a fish out of water, an ex-urban NYC mom who sought greener pastures as a rural mom in Wyoming. Only to find herself at odds with her new enviro, even though it is a swanky ski hamlet in the fabulous Rocky Mountain West. The fish-out-of-water-vibe worked just fine from the blogging perspective: to feel you don't fit is to find plenty to whine about and poke fun at. My two favorite activities.

For the past 2.5 years I have felt myself to be something of an urban gal in a rural place. And now I'm about to exchange the rural for the urban once more. I don't doubt I will continue to see my glass as half empty. Because for me there is no perfect place to live, only those countries in my own mind, populated with both city and country vistas at the same time, a country where I live in both a ramshackle country house and a chic apartment (with ample dollars, a fleet of nannies, chefs, chauffeurs, personal trainers, personal shoppers). In this country I have perfect haircuts all the time. When I open my pocketbook I do not ever see loose coins nor the ghosts of Ricola throat drops past. When I open this wallet I do not find ancient granular business cards to now-defunct Brooklyn car services...

What was I saying? Oh, right. Moving:

As we head westward, to a city I shall refer to only as Crabcity (the better to poke fun at it and its inhabitants without causing personal offense), I'm doing it with a bunch of happy feelings and a little sadness too. Read all about that here. Because while the rural thing isn't really quite my thing, the truth of the matter is that I'd have felt a fish out of water no matter where I was. Because I emigrated to the country of New Motherhood a few years ago, and it's a place with no natural-born citizens, only foreigners applying for permanent residence.

I'll spare you the dull details of my move. I'll just say that we're doing it. And it's awful. And it's great. And I definitely don't want to do this again. For a while.

Several women I know are about to pop first babies. So I'm doing the lip-zip—keeping mum about the day I became a mum. To me, there's no birth story worth hearing when yours is about to unfold. Bad stories are obviously off-putting; good ones can intimidate. So if you're a soon-to-be first mom, stop reading. My story might be good or bad (in either case, it's all bad for you).

In this excellent piece on labor pain, the author mentions how baby delivery professionals always tell preggie ladies, "Childbirth is different for everyone." Sadly, I didn't get that impression. Many of my friends seemed to give birth to bars of soap, in terms of difficulty. I also had this pre-labor dream in which, after a twinge of discomfort, I shot the baby into the arms of an admiring nurse, who said: "Wow! It slipped out like a sardine!" (Yes, it was a very weird dream.)

With my pals popping them without drugs and my easy-labor dreams, it's no wonder I thought I'd arise and walk home with my sardine within 12 hours. But when my day came, I went from the natural birth wing of NYC's St. Lukes-Roosevelt, with its back-massaging, candle-lighting, golden-boat visualizing, doula-like nurses, to the Failure to Progress category (much pain, no gain)...into a broken elevator, to be taken down a floor...and several notches lower in self-confidence, to where the brusque nurses and Pitocin reside...and eventually into C-section land, with its crucifix-like bed and flock of residents begging to make the cut.

Like many striving New Yorkers, I took an intense birth class that lasted forever and involved much dissing of epidurals while sharing babaganoush and mini-pitas with other overly-informed-but-trying-to-get-in-touch-with-our-instincts urbanites.

I'm glad I tried natural birth. But sometimes I wonder whether I missed out. On a nice big, fat, early epi.

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