And so it was, on Sunday. Thirty six. Yow. Leaning more towards a decade that I'm not even going to say out loud or type because if I don't acknowledge it, it won't exist. Let's just remain firmly in the present.
There were a lot of bigbigbig changes in the Thirty-Fifth Year Of My Life. You know, baby, major house renovation, BABY. I'm hoping that the Thirty-Sixth Year will be more of an even keel. We certainly aren't moving. Ever. With the money we spent on this renovation, we are staying here until they peel our cold, dead bodies off of the very expensive granite. Or until the real estate market recovers sufficiently for us to recoup the funds and do something insane like move into another house and start all over again.
It's amazing to be home, but I'm still feeling sort of scattered. I'm thinking that one day soon I will feel like I have my shit totally together again, but then I talk to a more experienced, wiser parent than I, and I realize that no, this is probably not going to happen. Showers will continue to be optional on any given day. I will continue to be grateful for good hair products that make those long minutes I used to spend on my hair unnecessary. I will pay for things at a store and forget them on the counter, and have people run after me to give them to me, because I was so caught up in making sure that I had the baby, the diaper bag, the stroller, my wallet, my credit card, my keys, that I completely forgot that I actually bought something and that I should now take it with me, per the usual custom in our society. The line between the clean and dirty baskets of laundry will continue to be blurry and shifting as I continue to forget which is which.
And I will continue to worry. Worry, with a capital W. I was unprepared for the volume and intensity and constancy of the worry. Is my baby too small? Is she eating enough? Is she hungry? Why is she hiccuping? What is that little red spot on her cheek? Is she cold? Why is she crying? What does she want? Am I doing this right? How much therapy is she going to need? She spat up - does she have a stomach disorder? SHE'S BREATHING, RIGHT? RIGHT?? And then this spawns other worry. How much overage did we pay for the renovation? Was it worth it? What's wrong with our roof now? What can we afford? Am I really going to be able to stand to go back to work in three more months?
I try not to get mired in the worry, and to just chill and enjoy. Which is hard when your time is divided between keeping the little larva entertained and alive, and frantically flying around by the seat of your pants while she's asleep to try to get things done that need to be done, and to try to do something for myself. Like drink some water or go to the bathroom or read the New York Times headlines. I used to get shit done, y'all, and it's hard to let go.
So. Once again. Let's try to stay in the present, be in the moment, and enjoy what's here now. Like the fancy new kitchen. Which really is well worth enjoying. Here's the "before" and "during" for comparison. Enjoy the pretty kitchen photos, cuz that's all I got, unless you want to sing the songs from "Philadelphia Chickens" with me and Helene.
Looking towards the front of the house.
Looking towards the back of the house.