I could hear her over the monitor.
Playing. Not Sleeping.
I entered with caution.
Standing with a school bus in one hand and a penguin in the other, donning sunglasses in the dark—she giggled. I sat down to read another book while the energy built up from this never-ending winter slowly gave way to snooze. I kissed her sweet forehead, smelling like maple syrup despite the past eleven hours and a bath time full of suds. We did it, I thought. We moved into a strange home and settled in quickly. Very quickly. And despite the occasional "I HATE IT HERE" outburst by the six year old, we have maintained continuum. Even the fourteen year old hound is likening our new digs to a loungeful retirement community. Proof that everything can change while, at the same time, everything stays the same.
I didn't know what to expect. Packing. Putting things in storage. Was everyone going to freak out? I still wake panicking. Did I forget anything? Did I throw something away that they are going to remember 4 years from now and never speak to me again? Should I have been more organized? What if I end up needing that lingering sole flip flop I blatantly ignored as the walls came down on the old house. Laying there in the mudroom area -- alone. Did it scream?
I don't think I was in this new house for less than an hour before I wigged out about not having any post-it notes. A complete and total OCD moment as I drove myself in freakish twitches to CVS to replenish my bizarre addiction. It only took a few words from Mr. Sal -- "Do everyone who loves you a favor, go buy some post-its" to make me realize that the need to stick my thoughts and lists everywhere has become a problem. He rarely speaks, and that's what he said. And that's okay.
Because I've been in this state of filtering myself. Not really on purpose, but totally looking at the world with silence. Quietly judging all of you. Moving can be really traumatic, and I was totally expecting a revolt that never happened... to which I have reacted with unreserved calm and patience. Part of me feels like everything I've ever said here on this blog is all about me running outside and shouting at the rain. Meanwhile, I think of things to say and, instead of coming back to this place, I've been writing them down (yes, on post-its) and then telling myself that I take myself way too seriously. Bringing it all full circle back to me. But filtered. Like super black coffee... yum.
Add to that the fact that Gwyneth Paltrow is TRYING to make people mad, and I have the perfect example of someone that should just turn it off. How egos this big are so unkempt and unrealistic that they don't even realize that they are telling people how to live their lives. I mean, who knew. AND, she's a tiny person. One tiny person with a forum that can only make one realize (again) the pomp and circumstance of celebrity. She also eats (sometimes, maybe) and probably poops on occasion... which you might think is gross, but is actually a HUGE subject in our house lately. Poop. Not Gwyneth's poop (but don't tell her that). Statements about working in an office vs. the film set -- convenient uncoupling or whatever dirty laundry she is trying to wipe off on the rest of us. I mean WHY? How is splitting up the new married? What is wrong with the word Divorce? Is it a BOSSY word that Mrs. Obams and Beyonce are going to throw under the bus? IT IS WHAT IT IS. But most of us really didn't need it smeared all over our daywear. At least I didn't and I'm wearing black—Very bossy.
ME. I don't want to drive angry. I'd like to say more, and I'm thinking that I might just do that. We made it through the worst wintah evah. We moved. Tore our house down with our bare hands, AND managed to smile through most of it. Now if the rest of the world could manage to keep their hairy conscious "I'm telling you but I'm not" ways of life out of the road, I might be inclined to say more... more often.