June 13, 2013
While laying on the table at my chiropractor’s office, my doctor adjusted me and told me that my body was emotionally overwhelmed. Oh and he also moonlights as a psychic. Actually, no he doesn’t’ need to be a psychic to realize that I’m emotionally overwhelmed. Just look at the little people I brought with me to the appointment, fighting over who gets to hold the iPad and hooow much looongerrr to we have do beee herreee!?? And then there’s Silas in his carseat carrier, like, “I’m cool right now, but leave me in here for another 4 minutes, and I’ll go crazy. CRAZY! Don’t believe me? Try it.”
So my doctor knows that my kids drive me crazy and I need a break. I don’t need a stranger justifying my role as an overwhelmed stay-at-home mother of three, but somehow in that moment, when my doctor was tapping my foot and telling me my life was difficult, my eyes yielded tears and my voice got soggy.
Silas is now seven months old. He does all these fantastic tricks now. He sits for a wobbly minute or two before he tips over like a buoy in the ocean. He’s opinionated, loud, and grabby. He’s basically an old man: He looks like Mr. Magoo, loves boobies, hates loud noises, loves naps, hates when things go off schedule, loves reading the paper (or Pat the Bunny), doesn’t have any teeth, talks to anyone who will listen to him, and has a hard time getting around. See? Old man. He has old man eyes too. Somehow when he looks at me, I feel like he understands more. More than just my face, and my nose, my eyebrows. He gets me. I think it’s because he’s already been through a lot. He has gained wisdom and perspective. … at 7 months old, he’s a magi.
We want to sell our house, which makes my stomach flip and my head weak, and I can’t feel my legs, and I’m scared. Scared because we don’t know where to go yet. There’s all this pressure we’ve heaped upon ourselves to find the dream home. But I want a modest life, and a simple house. Simple but beautiful with trees and a yard, maybe some chickens and a garden. I want a dutch door off my kitchen that opens to the outside where I can watch my kids run in the grass while I bake a cake, and wear an apron with cherries on it.
And then I get sentimental over this house that we live in, with it’s walls and rooms and sounds and the way the sun comes through the shutters at dinnertime and blasts my face with it’s shiny brightness.
I’ve been walking around my home lately, touching the walls and feeling the weight of what we created in the 3.5 years that we’ve been sleeping here and eating here and making babies here.
It’s just a shell, I keep reminding myself. We’re going to find a new shell. We are merely slugs, a family of slugs sliding around on the wet sidewalk looking for a new home.