So, as it turns out, when you move you carry along all the clutter that has accumulated in your head, all the slights and rejections and misunderstandings and hurts and unmet expectations. And the unanswered questions.
But, of course, I can’t really discuss much of that here because it has come to my attention that the Internet is quite a bit less private that those spiral notebooks I used to fill with my youthful angst.
You know what else you can’t really discuss on a public blog? Your kids, once they reach a particular age. And if you are a mother who lives full-time with kids, what else are you to discuss?
Certainly not the teenager who will agree to go to the beach but who refuses to actually get out of the van.
Being a mother of older children is complicated. Boy, isn’t that a nice sanitized way to putting it? I love my kids and I would do anything for them–short of buying them a new video game–but some days I wonder if anything I’ve ever said or done has made any sort of positive impact on them.
For instance, even though I have asked approximately eight billion times, they still do not think to wash the pans they’ve used to cook macaroni and cheese. I feel like a failure.
The other day, I discovered a broken piece of glass in the kitchen sink . . . but not the actual glass it broke from. No one would confess, either, so I went outside to the trash can and SURE ENOUGH, I found the broken glass. What? I am the kind of mom that kids feel they must hide broken glasses from. But really, I just want information. Who broke it? Why? When? How? I do not want to mete punishment–accidents happen–but I want to know the details. Is that too much to ask?
Do you know what I lost? My paring knife. It disappeared long before we moved but since we have moved and I have touched every single item in my household as I packed it, I know that it is gone. How does that happen?
I’ll tell you how. It happens when you live with kids. At least blaming kids offsets the exasperation.
As it turns out, four weeks after leaving my house in Steilacoom, I have way too many boxes in the garage and stacks and stacks of unsorted and unorganized books in my office. I haven’t hung anything on the walls yet so it seems like we’re living in someone else’s house, kind of.
But I have an office. My very own office with a patio door and a television and a door I can close. It’s pretty exciting considering I worked almost four years smack dab in the center of the family room. Working at home is the best of all worlds but also the worst of all worlds. Imagine working in an office with four kids and their friends traipsing through and playing electric guitars while you try to do your office job.
But the books everywhere? And the four boxes on the floor? And the empty walls? All of it is making me kind of discouraged.
The moral of this lesson?
Wherever you go, there you are. And so is your stuff. And the mishmash of crazy in your head.