I could have also titled this post, My Husband is Superman, but we'll get to that later.
In the middle of preparing dinner and encouraging naked children to clothe themselves post-bathing, our house went dark and silent. The refrigerator stopped humming, the heat stopped running, dinner stopped cooking. Blackout.
Even more troubling, a quick glance out the windows showed me that we were the only house on the block that was dark. Across the street Christmas lights still twinkled, our neighbor's on both sides were all aglow. It was only us.
Now, in the past month, I have handed all bills and financial woes over to my husband. The sheer stress of trying (and failing) to balance our meager budget was making me ill. And so my very first thought upon seeing the rest of the neighborhood alit whilst I was toiling away in the dark with naked child bottoms scurrying and squealing past my legs, was that someone (not naming names here) had forgotten to pay the nice electric people their due and now we were in trouble.
Not the case. A quick call to my husband at work revealed that our account is in good order. Next thought? Did we trip the breaker or blow a fuse or whatever it's called when you have the Christmas tree, stove, lights, pellet stove, heater, dryer, etc, etc, all blowing through electricity like it's going out of style?
Husband explained where to check and how. Still black.
While we waited for him to phone the electric company, the kids and I lit candles and sang Christmas Carols. Asher, who had been slumbering when the house went dark, decided that being awake and into everything would be much more fun, especially in the dim lighting with the chance that he might, if he played his cards just right, be able to start a fire.
All this to say, my hands were full.
Turns out, there is a breaker box outside our house, the electrical people finally informed us (upon our second or third call in). I set out into the dark night and crunched over the snow crusted yard to check things out. Sure enough, there was another "Master" breaker right out there for anyone to stop by and mess with. And so, I clicked it off. Waited a beat. Clicked it back on. Turned to our house, still dark. Tried it again. And again. Nope, still dark.
Husband decided to come home from work to see if he could figure things out. Half an hour later and seven Christmas Carols down, he arrived, poked his head in the door and asked, "Did you do the box closest to the road, or the one closer to the yard?"
It was the one facing our yard, I told him.
He had tried it too before coming in. Only, he, being a guy, who likes to understand what buttons and switches and knobs do - what they connect to, how things are wired, what will be the effect of the cause, etc, etc - he was wise enough to look both ways when clicking on and off that switch. And he noticed that in our efforts, we had been actually turning OFF and ON the electricity going to our neighbors house.
Less than a minute later, he was back out by the road and had our house up and running in the flick of a switch.
In the end, the kids and I got to make candle lit memories, our neighbors probably wound up calling the electric company to complain and my kids are all further convinced that their father is a superhero, capable of all things. And I am too.
I made these cupcakes today to bring with us down to my in-laws. We're heading down for three days to visit with my sister-in-law and her brood from Illinois. My children are especially excited to get to play with their cousins (of which there are seven...yes...seven.) The cakes were fun and easy to make, but probably not the wisest decision on my part, considering that baking was required, and summer has finally decided to make an appearance here in NH. It was 90 degrees today and the house is still trying to cool itself from this afternoon's activities.
Ugh.
Worth it though, I think. I made a little tutorial of the process, the final image being:
Changes are happening here, nothing as life-changing as a pregnancy or death, but still, change.Normally, I find change invigorating, but coupled with turning thirty, I feel as though it is all just pressure, mounting.
I should have spent more time today writing and less time baking. Writing always clears my head while baking tends to just fill my fridge and leave the creases of my fingernails dyed the colors of whatever frosting I was using.
However, my children are at an age though that baking or other such fun activities tends to trump all. And since I can't write while they're anything but absorbed in an activity (sleep is best) and I am growing rather bored of Chutes and Ladders & Disney Bingo - baking it is.
It's 9:18 in the morning. It's a strange morning for me, realizing where we are, where we were and where we were supposed to be, at this moment in time.
Exactly one week ago at this moment, I was giving birth.
Today, I am listening to the sounds of Veggie Tales singing to my two older children in the living room and the gentle breathing of my newborn beside me on the bed.
Where I should be, is still fully pregnant and enjoying the final days of my family of four with the beginning of my time off from work.
Best laid plans, I suppose.
The adjustment is going well for us (knock on wood) - Lila, whom I feared would be envious, has been anything but.
I'm going to call him Sweetie Pie, she told me yesterday, grinning over his cradle.
The Boss has been helpful, both with the baby, and with his sister (who has a cold and needs constant nose wiping and hand sanitizing.)
It occurred to me last night that there are entire stories of happenings here that I haven't posted here. This bothers me, only in that this has essentially been my journal of motherhood. It's where I've been able to come with the scraps at the end of my day and make something beautiful, even if only for myself.
Knowing how fast it all goes, how quickly a week, a month, a year, can pass - I wonder, how many small moments have I neglected to keep for myself here, or anywhere? Or perhaps, because this is a fruitless question, the better one to ask is - how many will I capture in the days and weeks and months to come?
In another attempt to earn some extra income at home, I've decided to go ahead and pimp myself out, offering my phenomenal Editorial & Mentoring Services to the world at large.
Because, of course, in "this economic climate" (I swear if I hear that phrase one more time, I might actually slap the person saying it to me) who wouldn't want to shell out their hard earned income to improve their home grown writing projects?
In family related news, it turns out that Lila is going to be in for a big disappointment when she realizes that this baby we keep talking about is actually going to arrive. She sat on my lap the other night and this conversation ensued:
Me: Lila, where's your baby brother?
Her: Uh, right there.
Me: No, that's your big brother. Where's the baby?
Her (quite huffy actually): The baby is all gone.So don't talk about it any more.
In our van earlier this week, we crossed over a set of train tracks that the children are familiar with.
Train tracks! Bossman shouted per his usual response to seeing the tracks. You better be careful driving, Daddy, Lila warned. Yeah, we don't want to be hit by a train, Boss concurred.
Vinnie and I agreed from our front seats. That would truly be a bad thing, being hit by a train and all. The following quick conversation followed:
Boss - How would we get home? I laughed a little and said quiet enough that only Vinnie could hear me - Ambulance? Vinnie - I don't know, maybe we'd just go see Jesus instead. Boss - Oh. Brief pause in conversation. Lila - We'll need to get more gas.
About a month ago in my parents living room as I prepared to leave for work, my son walked up to my father and said
Grampy, there's a baby in my Momma's tummy.
Oh! My father played along as though the news was new to him as well. So you are going to have a baby brother or sister? Brother, my son shot back without so much as a blink or a breath and then turned to play with his truck.
On this there is no debate - he is having a brother.
Two weeks ago, on a weekend trip planned for seeing barnyard animals and riding Ferris Wheels, I spent a restless night in a hotel room with my children. Before tucking them in, I saw red in the bathroom. A sucker punch. A gut check. I wondered - Can I go through the motions of motherhood, of kisses on foreheads and bedside prayers. Can I make them feel safe, when I myself am alone and worried that I might bleed more, might have the baby slide from me in my sleep?
By the early hours of the morning, my children had each crept from their bed and come to lay with me in mine. We tossed and turned together, pushed pillows, twisted sheets. None of us slept, but I was unwilling to wake up.
Hours later, I had an appointment set and we were packing. My father reasoned that it made sense to do so, even though the weekend was only just beginning. Still, he thought, in the event the news at the hospital was bad, we wouldn't need to drive back to get our things.
I tugged a sock over my son's heel and he asked me, What are you doing? I'm putting on your socks and shoes, I told him but his puzzled expression stopped me and I held his sneaker in my palm.
Are you taking my brother out? He asked. On the van ride home, as the kids sat on the bench seat behind me watching Disney's Fantasia, I tried to keep my crying as quiet as I could, tried to time my breath with the swelling of the music.
This morning, a beautiful October morning with sunlight and orange tinged leaves peeking through my bedroom windows, Lila and The Boss climbed onto my bed,each with their blankets, their blankies one might say. It's cold, The Boss announced.
It is.
Can I put my blanket on your tummy to keep the baby warm? My son asked, and he did just that.
My son has rhythm. And energy. These two forces squeezed into a three-year old boy's body can only mean one thing: Rain Dance.
The words are really secondary to the stomping of his feet (the right foot in particular) - usually he babbles, sometimes throwing in a noun here or there, say if Lila crosses his path. Suddenly, he's singing about her. Or sometimes he'll surprise us with a solid AMEN! and a resounding clap that would be more at home in the pews of a Southern Baptist Church than in my small kitchen.
Sometimes he tears out across the floor, just as soon as he's stripped down for his bath. This is called the Naked Time Rain Dance. (Can't wait to see the people who will find my blog by searching that phrase...)
Anyway. I warned you that there would be more video's. And so, here is my little Boss-man, chanting something about sitting down in a chair and stomping his way around my mother-in-law's kitchen.
Sadly, this is the only rain dance that comes complete with repetitive squatting (in such a way that I almost stopped him once during this performance to see if he was trying to poop...)
We are a light family. We dance in the kitchen, wrestle with our kids in the living room and toss pillows and towels and blankets over our heads (or throw them at each other's heads) nine or ten times a day. We are lighthearted, my husband and I. And we try to pass this on to our kids, let them know that making a mistake is more bearable if you laugh it off, that (minor) boo-boo's can be fixed by shaking it out, or getting a quick peck from Mom or Dad. That sometimes you just need to dive off of the couch into a pile of pillows, and that's ok.
But kids are smarter than that, more intuitive. And despite our best efforts to not let them see the burden that we're carrying, they do. Even my little son, not yet three, knows that his mom and dad are struggling, he reads us better than we read ourselves.
Standing in store check-out line, I'm humming and holding The Boss to keep him from running amuck through the aisles of Christmas decorations. He pulls back from me and looks me squarely in the eye. "It'll be ok, Momma," he tells me. And though I'd been masking my worries through humming and smiling and pointing out the big Santa decorations and the plastic snow globes that inflate on your lawn and spew Styrofoam snowflakes - he hasn't been fooled.
While I worked recently, my husband was playing with our son. Some quiet game, not their typical wrestling match, something peaceful before bed. And my son came to my husband, looked at him seriously and told him gently, matter-of-factly, "Love can heal that boo-boo, Daddy."
I saw the woman who fired my husband last night.
The hotel I work at is practically in the same parking lot as hers (and they're currently at war, nothing to do with what happened with my husband). She came through the lobby door, pulling her gloves on her hands, too distracted to notice who was behind the desk. When she looked up and met my eyes, her face turned red, turned raspberry, maroon even. She stumbled over herself, almost turned back around to leave. My presence had caught her off guard - the friend she was coming to see wasn't at the desk, and in her place was the woman working 40+ hours a week to keep her family afloat in the wake of what she did to her husband, her family.
My kids haven't had their annual doctors appointments, we don't have insurance.
I smiled at her politely, treated her with the same warmth and welcome as I do any of the guests who walk through our door.
And when she left, I smiled and waved and would've sent her off with a pleasant "have a good night..." had I not been on the telephone with a guest.
I felt a burden lifted. I am not bitter. She may have disrupted my life, but she has not disrupted my heart.
We are a light hearted family. We dance in the kitchen and laugh off our mistakes and let love heal what we can not.
I've been thoughtful lately. Not the useful, purposeful sort of thoughtful though. No, this week has been more the distracted, keep my brain cluttered to avoid dealing with the things that are right in front of me - clear as glass - more filled with thoughts than thoughtful.
More than simply distracted though, because distraction suggests that one is attempting to focus but has been diverted, sidetracked. And clearly, I have been making a point to keep my mind as hyperactive as possible lately on a mission of avoidance. I've had no intention to focus.
No writing done. Not listening to the characters sputtering around in my mind (which almost always leads to these sort of momentary lapses in sanity.) Not paying attention at work. Sort of wading through the days here, though surprisingly more present than when I'm actively writing. Perhaps it's because rather than trying to focus on a story and finding my children to be somewhat distracting (always at the most crucial creative moment), I'm simply off and playing with them. Zooming toy cars around the house, crawling on all fours and sitting on the floor feasting on a plastic food picnic, laid out on a navy striped kitchen towel - set up by my son, who came and took me by the hand from the computer and invited me to shuffle off this adult coil and simply be.
After a drenching rain yesterday, the yard was scattered with leaves and acorns have been popping off of our roof, settling throughout the yard. And so today, I took the kids out to explore in the crisp afternoon. For a short while I traded my worries about finances and jobs and all the rest of the mess mucking up my mind, and I let them scatter like leaves over the grass. Instead of dwelling on the impending sense of dread, of waiting for the shoe to fall, I chose to sit right down on the soft cool ground and let the dampness of the dirt soak through my jeans. I laughed with my children. I played with the new camera that we probably shouldn't have bought in the first place. But for that brief moment, I didn't think about it, or anything else like it. No price tags or oil bills. No buyers remorse or thoughts of our bank account.
Instead, I snapped pictures, marveled at the blessings God has given me. My little home and our little yard. The smudged and smiling faces of my children blinking against the sunlight.
At dinner, as we sat down at a table spread with fine, good, healthy food, we prayed as a family. I peeked up at my son, who sat beside his father, repeating the blessing, thanking God for the beautiful day and for the full plate before him. His eyes were squeezed shut, his head bowed down. I mouthed the words with him. Thank you, Jesus.
And again now as I type this, I'm thankful. For the comfort and clarity of faith. For the reminder that nothing can separate me from the love of Christ - not evil, nor bill collectors, or even my own fruitless attempts at distraction.
Yesterday was day one of my writing challenge and I spent it, of course, avoiding all things writing related by going to a local amusement park - the same one that my parents took me to as a little girl. The Boss rode the same rides that I did in my childhood. He went in the same slow circles on speed boats and fire trucks and helicopters, ringing bells and firing wooden semi-automatics from the rear of space ships. Ah...childhood.
I'm going to give it to you straight...It was fun. Vastly more fun than typing.
So there.
(Ok, so I did manage to get down a little before we left.)
So yesterday, I entrusted my freshly printed thesis (now approaching two weeks past due) to the hands of the employees of a particular nationwide chain of stores, who advertise binding as one of their services. When I asked the couldn't-be-more-than-sixteen year old girl if she could bind it, she took the document quickly and mumbled something to the effect of Sure.
No questions asked, and so I assumed, that they only offered one type of binding, and hoped it was the type that I needed - unibound, like a book.
My sister and I waited for a moment, fingering through really pathetic father's day cards and super-sized permanent markers, while the teenage girl spoke to someone in the back about problems with the binding machine. Could you come fix it? Now, here is where I should've stepped in. Should've made certain that they were attempting to do the type of binding that I needed. Should've made sure that things were ok.
Instead, I asked if my sister and I could come back for it in a few minutes - so that we could go and browse around a nearby store looking to spend gift certificates we each got for Mother's day.
Forty-five minutes later, we returned to the store, the manager was there this time, and I saw my plastic-spiral bound thesis sitting on the counter. My heart sank a little, knowing that they'd poked holes through the sides of the entire document, but it couldn't be that bad. I would simply take it, as I didn't specify that I didn't want spiral bound to begin with.
The manager apologized, said that he could photocopy the entire thing and unibound it for me on the spot. And so I flipped through the pages to show him the one particular page that couldn't be photocopied - the page with the signatures of my faculty advisor and my reader, with the final line blank and awaiting the signature of the program director.
To my surprise - it was photocopied already. Then I realized, the entire thesis was. And the original I had brought and handed over to the teenage girl? Well, the manager, now visibly flustered, embarrassed, upset, went to ask the teenage boy who had helped to fix the binding machine. Oh, we threw it out. And the trash is gone. Apparently, they had punched the spiral binding in backwards the first time, thus decided to undo it, photocopy my entire thesis and then just hide the evidence - I thought we could get by with the copy. He said.
At this point, my sister and I can both see the restraint that the manager is taking to stop himself from tearing the kids head off - he points to the useless, photocopied, spiral bound book and tells me that of course, they're not going to charge me for it. And so, we left. Disappointed, obviously. A bit aghast that they would've thrown away the original document I brought in - even if they had damaged it, it was still mine. I'm pretty sure that the director of the program won't fail me for the lack of the two original signatures, but I'm certain that a photocopied signature page is not what's expected from me.
Then - my sister and I decide to stop and get soft serve ice cream on our way home. (Ok, we'd been planning it all along - we're ice cream fiends...) And my first cup of coffee soft serve of the season - which cost me a whopping $5 - was bad. I mean, bad. I didn't realize just how bad until we were in the car, almost back to my parent's house. It was tangy. Icky. Not coffee-flavored at all.
My mother took one bite, and spit it out over the sink - Oh, that's spoiled milk.
And then, as though my day of disappointments couldn't get worse - I bought some blueberries on my way to my evening job. Something sweet, but manageable while working. Of course, they too were bad. Mealy, dry, disgusting.
But, at the end of the day - at nine-thirty last night - I came home to a husband who helped carry my sleeping children from the car, and we sat together and unwound. And I thought, what a nice day.
Good things. None earth shattering or life changing, or even long term consequential. But still good.
- My son is staying dryer longer and using the toilet for what it's intended for (as opposed to using it as a neat-o place it squat and read nursery rhymes) - and that alone for me is reason to stand up and cheer (which I do.)
- My father was retired for exactly 24 hours before landing an ideal job. (Long story, but now with a happy ending.)
- I went to church this morning wearing a skirt that I haven't worn since before I was pregnant, ahem, the first time I was pregnant. It's actually one I haven't worn in, oh, five years-ish. I was so excited that it not only fit, but looked gooood, that I almost took pictures of it, but then I regained sense and thought, it's just a skirt (and I did just email pictures of my bootay in a pair of honeymoon age shorts to some friends from college - so really, I think my vanity quotient for the month has been met.)
- I also saw my sister sing her final concert with a local A Capella group she has been with for the past few years. It was amazing. Her talent is one of those things that, having grown up with it, I tend to take for granted. This is my sister, she can sing pretty. Yeah. But, to hear her last night was like hearing her for the first time. Smooth, strong, effortless, moving. I cried, actually.
My husband and I drove home discussing the wonder of her voice. It's hard to explain to him how far she has come, from being a teenager with a pretty voice, a solo-in-the-choir-pretty voice, performing Amy Grant during church, to what she is now - a woman who can sing. From having a perfectly lovely voice, to being simply stunning.
Of course, I was hardly her biggest fan. My nephew stood on his father's lap, pointing and saying "Mama!" while she sang. And he cried too, but he was not moved by the music so much as he was afraid she was leaving him when the group walked off stage.
- And tonight, I wrote two stories...or at least two starts of something. It doesn't matter. It was writing - for writings sake, not for school or packets or theses - just writing because I like it. And it feels good.
- And also, in case I hadn't mentioned it in a while, I have two of the cutest children alive (though one of them hardly sits still long enough for pictures anymore...)
I drive by my past once a week. It's spread out like a necklace, link-to-link, as I travel the short stretch between my mothers house and my office. Down the rural route that I once thought was the be-all and end-all of roads in our state (and was later shocked to discover that my husband had never even driven on it) - my past winks at me at each turn.
First, the building that brought our family to the area - a twice (or thrice) bought and sold office building where my father's van spent nearly a decade, parked by the back door. I would wave at it from the backseat of my mother's car if we happened to pass by while he was working.
Just beyond the parking lot is a pair of tennis courts and an athletic field - where I took gym classes and played soccer. The booth at the top of the stands is now orange with large black tiger paws, but the field remains the same. Pepsi-cola scoreboard towering over a football length field, circled by a pummeled gravel track.
Keep driving. Pass by the playground where I worked in an after school program, where I swung barefoot at midnight with friends as a teenager, where I went on warm spring afternoons with my preschool class. Next, of course, is the preschool - followed by the corner store where we bought penny candy, sucked on smarties.
Keep driving. I pass the building where we held our rehearsal dinner for our wedding - it's now an office park. Two buildings down is the hall where I sat through Mother's Day luncheons, eating swollen ziti with fellow girl scouts. It's also the hall where five years ago, I danced my first dance with my husband.
Keep driving. Pass the best soft-serve ice cream you'll ever taste - but never will. It's now an Enterprise Rental Car office. Then there's shell of the grocery store that once fired me over a stolen kiwi. Then there's the Wendy's that popped up on the town line and prompted the McDonald's on Main Street to hang banners and flags - terrified of losing it's place as the fast food heart of the town.
Keep going beyond the town and there are small shops I went with my mother - then the private school she worked at - and ultimately, I arrive at the hospital she works at now. The hospital that gave me my first job, the first job I quit. The building where both of my children have been born. The children I dropped off this morning, at the start of day, at my mother's house, before driving through two decades of my life, and arriving here.
The drive was long. Farmland whipping by our windows, bugs splattering windshield, pit-stop style eating in greasy highway restaurants, feet cramping, legs sleeping, babies not - until finally, we arrived. Southern Illinois, or as we have affectionately dubbed it, Illatucky. My sister-in-law and her brood live on three acres of grassy hills and trees and brush, in a 1970's style maze-house that takes you up and down three floors in a circular pattern. We left with snow in our yard, and arrived at their doorstep with children running barefoot in shorts, dirty from playing outside. It was like driving through seasons, even through a snowstorm, and finding summer. Sun. 70's. 80's. Shorts and t-shirts. Lemonade and ice cream sundaes.
We hiked in the Crab Orchard Refuge, spent a day at a the St. Louis Zoo, played in castle themed parks while the kids got dirt under their nails and bruises, well, everywhere. By the end of the trip, The Boss was officially a boy - banged and bruised, he took his lumps and kept right on playing.
He ran away multiple times, giving me several heart-in-throat moments as I ran towards his screaming, not knowing where (or how) I would find him. But he was always fine - twice barefoot along gravel roads, opening (and closing) doors and running down stairs and through backyards. I'm seriously considering slapping a GPS tracker on him. Or putting him in an invisible fenced area. At the very least, bells or a harness.
We met our newest niece, just two weeks old and petite with slender features and long limbs (waif models everywhere would be jealous.) And today we're going to meet our newest nephew - who arrived while we were miles and miles away, Monday night (against my explicit instructions for him to stay put 'till I got home...)
And, while away - my thesis returned to me, ready to be revised (ugh) - and so while I'm back, I'm not quite yet. Even though I have things I'd like to write and post, for the next week I'll need to be revision-focused...and blogging will come in bits. Like this.
Saturday 1:30: Set out with toddler and infant to run errands and find perfect Christmas tree.
2:30: While running errands, toddler gets antsy and hungry. We decide to combine errands and purchase perfect Christmas tree from the Home Depot garden center, rather than stop at the cute farm shop down the street from our home.
3:00: Stand in cold windtunnel with underdressed toddler and infant while waiting to pay for perfect Christmas tree.
3:30: Return home with tree, groceries and various supplies purchased at Home Depot.
4:00: Tree is standing in cheap-o tree stand. Sort of. Leans severely, but husband assures me that all is well.
Sunday
5:00: Branches have lowered, tree appears ready to be decked.
5:30: Husband begins to attempt lighting tree.
5:35: While serving toddler dinner, husband can be heard beating tree into submission in living room. Quote: "I hate Christmas"
5:45: Tree is down. Husband is beneath tree.
6:00: Family trip to local mega-mart to purchase more reliable, easier to use tree stand to display our perfect Christmas tree.
7:30: Toddler hangs his special ornament, goes to bed.
9:00: Husband has successfully lit the tree. Huzzah! Decorating can commence!
9:45: Tree is beautiful. Pictures are taken. Finally, all is quiet and lovely.
10:00: Crash. Clink clink clink. Rush to living room to find perplexed husband standing over fallen tree. It fell, unprovoked. Some ornamental casualties, but all sentimental pieces survive.
10:30: Start over.
11:15: Thinking pre-decorated, artificial trees don't sound too bad.
Turkey. Stuffing. Gravy. Heaps of vegetables. Football. Toddlers whizzing around the house. Grandparents whizzing after them. Wiping scraps from plates. Doing dishes. Trifle. Pie. Cake. Ice cream. Reminiscing. Waking sleeping children for the long drive home in the rain.
It's slippery, this slope we've slid into domesticity. I realized this morning, watching from the car as my husband dragged trash cans to the edge of our driveway, that we are a cliche. Husband and wife, 1.5 children. I cook and clean and stay home with our son. He works, comes home with witty stories from his day that he tells me over my latest dinner concoction. I nod appropriately, my eyes balancing their focus between him to our son, watching for flying food or spoons, or signs of distaste for my cooking.
I woke up this morning thinking of how nice it'll be to wash our sheets, for them to smell fresh and clean and feel warm on my hands as I spread them over our mattress. By the time my son goes down for his nap, I'm making a mental catalog of our kitchen cabinets and pantry and fridge. What can I make for dinner?
The sink is clogged. The trash smells. The cat pee'd outside of her litterbox. There's a spider behind our toilet. All these fall under his responsibilities. Without realizing it, and without any provocation from family or society, we've given ourselves over to a sort of old fashioned existence, the 1950's cliche of men and women living together and raising children.
But more surprising, is that I really don't care. I'm quite happy with the way things are. Though I could snake a sink or squash a spider with a wad of scrunched up toilet paper, I don't particularly want to. And I'll gladly choose loading and unloading dishes over lugging around garbage bags full of chicken parts and The Boss's leftovers.
And would I rather work eight to nine hours a day than spend time with my son? Absolutely not.
It's just interesting to me that this is where we've landed. Where we are, for the moment. Someplace I hadn't thought much about - an existence I hadn't ever thought I'd be settled into. Though, I know that time is going to have it's way with us, and in ten years (heck, even in ten months) we may have slid to another existence entirely. The kids will grow up and I'm sure I'll be working again and life won't be as simple as what to make for dinner and Honey can you take out the trash?
But for now, this is interesting. This place. I'm taking mental snapshots to remember it by when we've left. (Though, in those, I'm wearing an apple-red apron with nails to match and my hair is perfectly coiffed. I think I'm allowed a little creative license here.)
Thank you all for your comments and patience while I've been in transition...
We're pretty much settled in, but are still having troubles with the internet. Apparently my husband needs to crawl beneath the house to do something to the cables in order for there to be enough signal for us to use a cable modem.
I'm trying *very* hard to be patient...it is not easy. Not only is my schoolwork and "business" suffering, but I feel as though it's been a lifetime since I've been able to sit and blog...not just post an update or some pictures, but really write.
Hopefully I will return soon. In the meantime, it'll be limited to visits to other's houses and my one day a week job in an office (because, clearly, working on strictly office work for an entire eight hour stretch would be far too tedious...)
We're built differently. She has a smaller frame, slender fingers and feet. Her eyes blue, her skin darker and unblemished by freckles. Unlike me, with my thin net of freckles over skin so pale that in the winter it's nearly transluscent. My feet have always been bigger; all of me has. Broader shoulders, rounder knuckles and knees, breasts.
Of course, none of this ever deterred me from raiding her closet. I'd do it and return shirts to their hangers, clean, but stretched so much that when she'd wear them, they'd hang loose over her narrow frame. She hated that.
Today, we share everything. It's a habit we've nurtured over the past decade. We share clothing, couches, food, burdens, experiences, everything. And today, even this; the one thing I wanted to keep for myself.
But now it's on her, draped and heavy over her shoulders and I can't take it off. Can't make it only mine again. And I finally understand, there are some things sisters shouldn't have to share.
