Accidental Crackhead

I was so cracked out of my mind last week that I actually thought Mr. Milkweed should apply for a job in my hometown.

An apt description, for those of you who aren't in the know:

Urban Dictionary

This is a place so legendarily awful that in our twelve years together, Mr. Milkweed and I have taken to calling it Rockville-- as in, Don't Go Back To.



Looking at your watch a third time waiting in the station for a bus
Going to a place that’s far, so far away and if that’s not enough
Going where nobody says hello, they don’t talk to anybody they don’t know
You’ll wind up in some factory that’s full time filth and nowhere left to go
Walk home to an empty house, sit around all by yourself...


Both the city high school and one of the county high schools are hiring, and the city school system is so desperate for teachers that it helps pay for employees to reach certification. Aside from the fact that at this point, we'd pay out of state tuition in VA for at least a year, this did sound appealing. As did the idea (at least in theory) that moving closer to family would mean more help with an as-of-yet hypothetical second baby. Also, as much as I hate it, it really is beautiful down there, and we'd only be there three years, tops-- long enough for Mr. Milkweed to get certified, get some high school teaching experience under his belt, and get the heck out of Dodge.

But then I started to really think about it. I thought about the fact that I hated my hometown so much, after my freshman year in college I never even went home for the summer. I thought of how there's no such thing as a stay at home mom in Danville, of how the libraries never have story times, of how there are no playgroups and and only one municipal playground for the entire city. A friend recently described a town not far away from here as one where moms sit in their cars and smoke cigarettes while their children swing, and I was instantly transported to a childhood playdate with a girl named Melanie whose mother smoked Kools while we fought over who got to play on the metal turtle.



There it is, on the right. It's still there.

And I started to think: Do I really want to live in an area where one's social life revolves entirely around one's church? Where babies are routinely strapped into carseats in front of the TV with bottles full of Pepsi, while their parents discuss when to pierce their ears (if they are girls) or when to take them hunting (if they are boys)? Where moms who read, blog, are liberal, and follow semi-vegetarian diets are about as alien as Yog-Sothoth?

To reference the locals:


HELL NOOOOOOO.

And yet, it was still a tough decision. He got as far as sending the city HR department his resume and cover letter, and it was clear from the near instantaneous response that they were QUITE enthusiastic to be getting his information. Furthermore, my older brother is something of a mafioso with the local county officials, and could have had a word or two with the superintendent of the county school system. It's hard to stand in the face of four years of rejection and turn down what would almost certainly be an acceptance, but at what cost?

As soon as we decided that it would be OK to put personal, marital, and familial happiness ahead of what might a small step forward for Mr. Milkweed's career, it became obvious that he should not complete the application process. I may be from Danville, but I am not OF Danville. I never was.

Whether we do, in fact, end up here in the Midwest or in a more desirable location in VA is still up in the air. As far as I'm concerned, we're here for the foreseeable future, and I'm trying hard to stay in a place of Zen and avoid obsessing about the alternatives.

Our situation now, complications and all, is freaking Valhalla compared to what life would be like if we moved back there. And, as Mr. Milkweed's mother once so wisely pointed out, things that are only supposed to be temporary often aren't. We didn't think we'd be in our current city for ten years.

As far as I'm concerned, I'd gladly take ten years more.