Before I launch back into writing about our (first) bathroom makeover (which is FINALLY finished, and oh my god that took forever) and the best ballet flats out there and, I don’t know, chicken, or whatever…I figured I should probably address the elephant in the room.
I don’t know if we’re going to stay in this house. Or even in this city.
I don’t know anything.
On Saturday, the therapist we’re working with asked me what I’d see as the ideal situation three months from now, and, you will be shocked to learn, I burst into tears. (Or I guess “bursting into tears” isn’t quite accurate; there’s sort of a constant stream these days, so it was really more of a “turning up the faucet a little higher” situation.) I DON’T KNOW, I said.
I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.
I have two children. I love them so much, and I just want to keep them safe; make them happy. I love my neighborhood. I love my friends. I just spent three years working on making this house beautiful in my odd, imperfect way. There are other places I could love, other houses and other cities and even – I suppose – more friends out there, somewhere.
Anywhere I lay my head, et cetera.
Summer just started, and all I want to do is swim, and swim, and swim.
But apart from that, I don’t know anything.
So…right. That’s the update.