Countdown to departure: 13 days. Whoa. Could barely drag myself out of bed this morning in spite of the fact that the baby slept through the night. Half of me was super-motivated, “I’m going to blitz the house! Tidy things up, wrap up the organization, and clean one more time before the movers get here next Monday! It’ll be great!” Then I was going to go traipsing about in London and the countryside for the rest of the week. Alas, in spite of working my butt off all day I didn’t even finish the kitchen. Perhaps I should have done what the other half of me wanted and gone back to bed and pulled the covers over my head.
This is hard. I don’t do well with this unknown stuff. It’s so clear I need a lesson in being in the moment. Or...well, I’m getting a lesson. So far I’m pretty sure my grade is a D minus--not an F perhaps, but pretty darned close. I keep living in the moment we arrive. The moment we find a house. The moment I get schools squared away. I live in the moment where we can’t find a good house too. The moment the only school is a crappy one where the teachers are mean and the lunch lady tries to poison the kids. I live in the moment where we end up on the streets. Or worse--a tiny 2 bedroom basement apartment with a leaky ceiling and no heat. Yes, I am a touch dramatic. But dude, the internal monologue is a real doozy these days. Sure, it’s silly--I have a oodles of evidence that the world is a friendly place and that everything will work out swimmingly. The bottom line is that I’m over it. I’m tired. I’ve been cheerful and chilled-out and cool about this whole ‘we’ll get there when we get there and we don’t know where ‘where’ is but it’ll be grand!’ thing. Cheerful and chilled-out is one thing--brave is quite another. My inner-control freak is freaking out.
Scott asked me today what would be gained by knowing. What would it change if I knew? If I knew where we would live. If I knew where the boys would be going to school. If I knew...how would things be different right now? How would I be planning or acting or what would I be doing differently? After I told him I sort of wanted to punch him in the face I considered what he said. I don’t know...I’d stop obsessing I guess. I’d stop worrying. I’d work on plans for the one scenario instead of making wildly obsessive plans about the 784 fabricated scenarios running through my head. I’m sure knowing would make me stop obsessing. Right? Right? Don’t you think? Come on, back me up here.
Bridger came in a little bit ago--still up nearly two hours after he went to bed. “Mom? My brain is too full. I can’t shut my mind off.” Poor kid. I have no idea where he gets it.
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