tonight's secret
So my feet are on the coffee table, I've got my comfy black pants on, my Marine is searching Craigslist on the couch next to me, my back is aching.....yet all is well.
Just a year ago, the girls and I were headed back from our Easter jaunt to DC, and my Marine was on his laptop and Skyped us from a few 6000 miles away.
Ah, time. She keeps moving on at her desired pace, no matter how firmly you try and plant your heels and slow her or how adamantly you try and shoo her on.
Here we sit, right inside the threshhold of a new beginning.
(ever consider the oxymoron in there?)
There's the current house, the only one my kids have ever known. The one that has housed the most birthday parties, the most deployments, the most memories. Yes, I'm trying to slowly accept the fact that this home will soon be someone else's. That's the only work that's left for us to do here. Well, that, and to not worry so much on when/if someone will indeed buy our house soon. Paying two mortgages isn't ideal for keeping stress levels low, you know.
There's the new house, the one we not-so-fondly refer to as "the house that keeps on giving". Problems, that is. If you force me to look, we have accomplished a lot in the week she's been ours. And the handyman husband keeps saying that, even with our newly found flooring glitch in consideration, we don't have much more to do before the moving can commence. Yet this tired momma isn't quite so Polly-Anna these days. She's spent 10 hours cleaning the kitchen (because it simply was that dirty). She's spent an equal number of hours cleaning the rest of the house, minus two bathrooms that she gladly let someone else tackle. She's spent an hour scraping one square foot of despised wallpaper. And now, she's officially fired, says the handyman husband. She's been pushing it too far, working too hard, resting too little, that she's been handed the verbal pink slip. Fired. Told that her services have been appreicated, but they're no longer needed. And for this lady that has never been or will be called lazy, it's a little hard to accept (but yes, I know it's time).
For we can't forget Girl #4. Of all my pregnancies, this one is the most different. I'm over exhausted, all the time. A morning dose of coffee, even of the pricey Starbucks variety, has no effect anymore. At 6 months along, I feel like it's 9. Seriously. I feel huge. And I waddle. Seriously. Then there's the back pain, the type that comes from a pinched nerve. All the time, every day, no matter what. Yet it's only temporary. With the other 3, I felt them kicking and stirring maybe twice a day. Either they didn't move a whole lot, or I just didn't feel it. This one.....vastly different. The moment I sit down (which, granted, usually isn't until after supper time), the acrobatics begin. Even sometimes when I'm up and walking around (like at the grocery store the other week), she's kicking away. Daddy finally got to feel his baby kicking me....a first for him with all the kids.
And here's my biggest little secret: in the midst of the chaos of the old house and the new house and the new baby, I'm obsessing in the smallish things. I love hearing the chatter of two tired girls who for right now have to share a bedroom, but won't for much longer. I love finding girls fast asleep with a picture of their Daddy clutched in their hands. I love a huge backyard where the kids play overly contently for hours (there seems to be more imagination there, I think). I love the need for more bath-giving and laundry-washing than normal. I love seeing how much hard work my Marine puts into our new house. I love the excited look in his eye when he talks about moving day....soon. I love every single kick and somersault and punch from a daughter I've yet to meet. I love this pregnant belly, even on the days I don't feel so cute.
I suppose it's no secret anymore.
My life is being lived in the little things.
Just a year ago, the girls and I were headed back from our Easter jaunt to DC, and my Marine was on his laptop and Skyped us from a few 6000 miles away.
Ah, time. She keeps moving on at her desired pace, no matter how firmly you try and plant your heels and slow her or how adamantly you try and shoo her on.
Here we sit, right inside the threshhold of a new beginning.
(ever consider the oxymoron in there?)
There's the current house, the only one my kids have ever known. The one that has housed the most birthday parties, the most deployments, the most memories. Yes, I'm trying to slowly accept the fact that this home will soon be someone else's. That's the only work that's left for us to do here. Well, that, and to not worry so much on when/if someone will indeed buy our house soon. Paying two mortgages isn't ideal for keeping stress levels low, you know.
There's the new house, the one we not-so-fondly refer to as "the house that keeps on giving". Problems, that is. If you force me to look, we have accomplished a lot in the week she's been ours. And the handyman husband keeps saying that, even with our newly found flooring glitch in consideration, we don't have much more to do before the moving can commence. Yet this tired momma isn't quite so Polly-Anna these days. She's spent 10 hours cleaning the kitchen (because it simply was that dirty). She's spent an equal number of hours cleaning the rest of the house, minus two bathrooms that she gladly let someone else tackle. She's spent an hour scraping one square foot of despised wallpaper. And now, she's officially fired, says the handyman husband. She's been pushing it too far, working too hard, resting too little, that she's been handed the verbal pink slip. Fired. Told that her services have been appreicated, but they're no longer needed. And for this lady that has never been or will be called lazy, it's a little hard to accept (but yes, I know it's time).
For we can't forget Girl #4. Of all my pregnancies, this one is the most different. I'm over exhausted, all the time. A morning dose of coffee, even of the pricey Starbucks variety, has no effect anymore. At 6 months along, I feel like it's 9. Seriously. I feel huge. And I waddle. Seriously. Then there's the back pain, the type that comes from a pinched nerve. All the time, every day, no matter what. Yet it's only temporary. With the other 3, I felt them kicking and stirring maybe twice a day. Either they didn't move a whole lot, or I just didn't feel it. This one.....vastly different. The moment I sit down (which, granted, usually isn't until after supper time), the acrobatics begin. Even sometimes when I'm up and walking around (like at the grocery store the other week), she's kicking away. Daddy finally got to feel his baby kicking me....a first for him with all the kids.
And here's my biggest little secret: in the midst of the chaos of the old house and the new house and the new baby, I'm obsessing in the smallish things. I love hearing the chatter of two tired girls who for right now have to share a bedroom, but won't for much longer. I love finding girls fast asleep with a picture of their Daddy clutched in their hands. I love a huge backyard where the kids play overly contently for hours (there seems to be more imagination there, I think). I love the need for more bath-giving and laundry-washing than normal. I love seeing how much hard work my Marine puts into our new house. I love the excited look in his eye when he talks about moving day....soon. I love every single kick and somersault and punch from a daughter I've yet to meet. I love this pregnant belly, even on the days I don't feel so cute.
I suppose it's no secret anymore.
My life is being lived in the little things.
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