Today officially marks four months since we moved in with my parents to cut down the commute while we wait for our house to sell.
I thought we’d be living there six weeks. Maybe two months max. Then we’d be in our beautiful new home with the neighborhood pool and we would close out our summer by splashing and meeting neighbors and getting the backyard presentable enough for Harrison’s fall birthday. But after our seventh closing date fell through, it’s four months and we are still living like gypsies. Yes, I am stressed and exhausted and worried and frustrated.
I am lucky that I get along with my parents and so does my husband. I am lucky that they dote on Harrison and love our dog. I am lucky that they had space in their home and the willingness to open it to us. I will never, ever forget this generosity. But I am ready for my own normal.
I’m ready to not worry about everyone’s sleep being interrupted if Harrison has a bad dream.
I’m ready to walk around in my upstairs hall in my under-roos.
I’m ready to curl up on the couch for a movie with my husband without having to find out if anyone else wants to watch the movie, what movie would they like to watch, should we make popcorn, etc.
I’m ready to not have suggestions about parenting, no matter how well-intentioned they may be.
I’m ready to not have silent sex. ::awkward pause::
I’m ready to cook with my own pots and pans that have collected dust in boxes.
To know where my curlers are and those jeans that I love best with the worn hole in the knee and Harrison’s rain coat, but I haven’t seen any of those in four months.
My friends, please bear (bare?) with me as we grunt through this final stage. We heard last night it may be another 3 weeks at best and that news literally made my ulcer spasm.
More from BA:
Toddler car seat safety. aka SUPER IMPORTANT TO READ.