Last week I had a day that was weirdly frenzied and crabby and anxious, even though Pippin was a dreamboat — nap, no fits, no “nuffin’,” as he’d say, and Scout, was, well, Scout. There were some scheduling complications, to be fair, but even during simultaneous nap (!), things felt frantic and hard.
I think some of it was coming off the tiredness from Scout’s most recent illness and trying to regroup in the shambles inevitably left behind, but mostly, I think, it was a sort of happy overwhelm at the prospect of moving.
You see, dear readers, we’ve bought our first house. (We hope it’s our last one.)
We know we’re moving, but we don’t know when or our strategy (essentials first and camp out there, or non-essentials first and move last thing). We’re kind of in limbo and need to do nothing and everything, and, well — I’d always prefer doing everything to nothing. So that day, I’d start a blog post, then open 30 tabs about dining room chandeliers, then realize I hadn’t considered the possibility of wallpaper, then wonder if I should ask the neighbor her views on irises.
The thing is, I know this is the house where we will someday bring home the baby boy with the brown eyes, or the little girl with the dark hair, where Bonnie will grow old and creaky, where we’ll gather with fresh-faced, impossibly young college students, and welcome our future nieces and nephews, and grow old in friendships now just beginning. If I ever write a book, it will be in the weird, big master closet with the desk and window; if Pippin ever sticks glow-in-the-dark stars to the ceiling it’ll be in the bedroom that right now stands bare and waiting for him. Scout will invite friends there for her first sleepover, and J will try to appear nonchalant as he waits there for her return from her first date.
I just can’t wait to get started.