Our weekend is over, which is both a blessing and a disappointment.
We woke up Friday morning in the best of moods, anxiously anticipating closing on the house. It was never supposed to be "for sure" thing, but we really believed it would happen. It didn't (long story). It wasn't our fault. And we don't blame anyone. But it caused great frustration.
So we are still living out of boxes.
You need to understand that I am a neat freak. I can't stand messes. And I can't tolerate my home not being organized. We have a very firm system in our household: Lola goes to bed by 7 p.m., Ray and I clean until 8 p.m., and then we relax. I can't relax until every shape is placed back into its corresponding toy. Until every baby doll is, again, dressed and put back in her crib. Until every block, ball and book are back in their proper order. I'm not kidding.
Now we are living in a bunker. The piles of boxes have gotten so high and so deep that our living room is surrounded on two sides by boxes and by a lineup of empty bookcases, dressers and hutches on another. I can't see the front door from the couch. And I can't get from the living room to the refrigerator without doing all sorts of football drills (i.e. the ducks, the spins and the leaps).
And we've reached the end of our ropes. I mean, I'm living with just three pairs of shoes. Three pairs of shoes: tan everyday flip-flops, a pair of work flats and a pair of tan blogs, which are totally not summer shoes. I want my heels and my open-toed sandals! Lola has just two pairs of pants. (Well, actually, she has four: I bought her two new pairs Sunday.) She has two pairs of PJs. Everything else is packed. Because, you know, Friday morning I was convinced we were moving in five hours.
You get the idea.
But it's making thing tense at home. Example: Friday. We decide to get KFC for dinner because neither of us has any energy or desire to cook (since we, you know, don't have pots or pans anymore). We order. We pull away and I tell Ray: "I don't think they included your fries." He stops and I dig around in the bag for a bit. I feel a container on the bottom of the sack. I tell him I've got them. He drives home. We open food at home (14 miles from KFC). No fries. Apparently, I mistook a mashed potatoes container for what usually has the French fries. Crud.
Ray blames me for the fries' absence. Other than playing and talking with Lola, the house is pretty quiet for the next two hours. Only after she goes to bed and I stumble on "Shrek 3" on TV does the tension finally ease.
Fortunately, the weekend improved from there.
Saturday was a good day. Lola and I had a girls' morning alone with some friends while Ray stayed home. But things were tense, again, when we all got home together. But, finally about 1 p.m., while Lola was napping, Ray and I just looked at each other and admitted that we were both being asses to one another. We just called it out. Then, we laughed and had a pretty good afternoon, which was surprising since Lola was puking everywhere for the next two hours straight. (Note: I have not, personally, endured a more frightening parenting experience than when I walked into my child's room and found bright pink barf everywhere. Nothing has scared my as much as hearing my very capable husband hollering for help from the baby's room, "Bethany! I need you in here now!" My heart did not begin beating again until my husband could prove, in five different ways, that the puke was pink not because it was blood-tinged, but because Lola ate a strawberry NutriGrain bar.)
Sunday was a fabulous day. One of those days we won't forget. I even got away with a joke about how French fries ruined my Friday night... (small victories, readers, small victories).
My day today began with the official letter of approval from our lender. We will close Friday. In theory.
With us, you just never know...
- Bethany :)