For the past month, Hubby and I have been watching from our 3rd story window as at least half a dozen cars have gotten stuck in the never-plowed alley behind our building. We’d watch the drivers, passengers, other drivers caught behind the stuck vehicle, and neighbors who happened by dig, push, and maneuver their way out of the deep, icy ruts that had been cut through snow after snow all winter, congratulating ourselves for saving the $30/month on a parking space only to have to deal with that every time we wanted to drive somewhere.
Earlier this week, there were two days of sunshine and temperatures well above freezing. It was a nice break. Snow started melting. Puddles started forming. The ruts in the alley became streams. And then last night the temps dropped again.
Hubby had a job interview yesterday. It was for a job with the US government. He knew when he applied that it was a temporary position, but during the course of the interview, he found out just how temporary: six months. He doesn’t know if they’ll offer him the job, but even if they do, he won’t take it. It’s not worth the stress and upheaval of our lives to make another international move for six months, this time with a soon-to-be-toddler in tow.
The thought of moving again–for any job, anywhere–gives me a stress headache. And yet, there’s no part of me that wants to stay here. I hate being back in this very familiar place of not knowing where we’ll be or what we’ll be doing over the next several months, but this time with the added bonus of having a child to take care of and me being unemployed as well. At least in the past, when we were waiting for someone to believe in Hubby’s research enough to give him a job, I had a reliable source of income.
The best we can hope for at this point is that Hubby’s brother can navigate the bureaucracy surrounding the inheritance from their father, which would give us a bit of a cushion. Because this ice is treacherous, and we’re about to land flat on our asses.
This morning, once again, I heard the familiar squeal-hiss of tires spinning on snow, getting nowhere. I looked out the window and, sure enough, there was a car in one of our building’s parking spots struggling to back out into the alley, which is now strewn with evidence of all those previous attempts: a broken shovel handle, plywood, and sheets of now-soggy cardboard, once used to provide traction and escape. The good news, I thought, is that each of those cars eventually got out. None of them was stuck forever. And we won’t be either.