We moved two weeks ago. Two weeks seems like nothing and forever at the same time. Matt is at his new job; he likes it. My boys will be home from school soon. Natalie is watching Maggie and the Ferocious Beast (it’s a preschool cartoon), and I’ve been hanging out at the computer desk for longer than I should have today. The last 12 days or so have been a frenzy of unpacking boxes and putting every thing in its new place. Somehow during this same time, the boys convinced Matt that they needed to buy some guinea pigs since they had to leave their beloved fish, Colors, behind in Minnesota. Don’t ask me how I feel about the new pets.
My bedroom is the last room to unpack, except for some “storage” boxes in the basement. I can’t bring myself to do it; I’ve been avoiding those last dozen boxes or so for about 3 days. At first I thought it was because I was just feeling tired and a little bit lazy, and who likes to organize a closet anyway? (I know some of you might actually like that kind of thing, and all I can say about that is: How much do you charge?) However, after a little bit of gloom today and a little bit of reflection, it dawned on me:
I don’t want to finish unpacking because then I live here. Really live here.
And then I realized that the thought terrifies me a little bit. That seems ridiculous because, hello, I’m already here, but everything happened so fast. I’m not sure I ever really got a chance to process it all. I think I might be afraid. Continue reading