So, we’ve lived in our house for about three years.
My commuter community neighbourhood, coupled with my hermit tendencies doesn’t make for close next-door relationships.
We smile at our neighbours. We say ‘hi’ if we pass each other on the sidewalk. We even help one another shovel our driveways.
That’s pretty much as far as it goes however.
Case and point:
When I was 39 weeks pregnant, in labour and about to be driven to the hospital, we met our neighbours as they arrived home.
They saw our overnight bags and commented.
Neighbour: Oh, are you going on vacation?
Husband: No, we’re on our way to the hospital.
Neighbour: Oh no! You’re not sick, are you?
Me: Uh, no. I’m pregnant.
Seriously. I’m so huge I was getting offers to be sponsored by Goodyear, and my sweet, concerned neighbour doesn’t know I’m pregnant.
Apparently, I’d just been having a whole lot of fat days.
Anyhow, she’s not the only one that has fallen down on the job.
I had great plans, when we moved in, to be the best neighbours. Cookies at Christmas, the whole bit.
I’m an utter failure.
I don’t know their names, for example.
We’re at the point where it’s just to embarrassing to ask, you know?
We’ve lived by them for three years and I knew her name was “Something German”.
My thank-you-for-the-baby-gift card to her read, “Thanks, Neighbour!”
I rectified the point today, however.
See, we go to the same chiropractor.
I sneaked (snuck?) a look at her file.
Don’t tell anyone.