Greetings from disasterville where everywhere you look, there are empty walls full of nail holes and scuffs from furniture and tear-soaked memories because I'm as allergic to nostalgia as I'm obsessed with rubbing it all over my body. If I find an old photo album, I must look at that old photo album. If I find an old journal I must read the entire contents of that old journal. If I find an old manuscript, I must read all 373 of its pages and then obsess over the many years I spent tediously editing that old manuscript.
And then suddenly it's 2am and I can hear the babies stirring in the other room and I miss everyone I've ever known and I want them all to be my friends and boyfriends and roommates again. But I don't. But I do. But I don't. But I do. But I don'tdo.
I say that a lot lately. I say it so much Hal rolls his eyes. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head and mocks me and ha ha very funny fuck off I love you.
Bo started standing on her own this weekend. She'll pull up and then let go like she's surfing and then she'll fall, usually on her bottom, but sometimes on her face. She had a split lip last week to prove it. A bloody mouth, bruises all over her head to match the ones Revi's been rocking for the last few daredevil months.
I never realized how much I used to care until I stopped caring. It's liberating having four children, in a way, because "somebody" can suck it. I used to mix bottles of formula in bathroom stalls for crying out loud. Now I run around town with formula wrappers hanging out of my cleav. Because I dare you to step to this.
And naturally, because I'm no longer self conscious about all the things I used to be self conscious about, nobody does.
my mourning of every other piece of clothing has morphed into an obsession with filling more garbage bags. My closet is at half capacity right now, which means I'll be wearing the same three things for the rest of the year, but they're three things I love so What. ever, Cher Horowitz.
I bought an old chest as a coffee table yesterday and a plate for keys to place in the entryway of our new home. There's a wonderful stained glass window there and when I saw this sassy little number (below) at the flea market, I had to buy it immediately. (I bartered it down a WHOLE dollar, fyi because I'm a total shark in the negotiations department. Watch out.)
I had originally planned for the kids to spend the weekend with friends as not to overwhelm them/us but then I realized DUH, terrible idea.
I want my kids to know that we're doing this move together. That they aren't only along for the ride. That this is OUR adventure. This is OUR house. And as I've learned thus far in my (albeit short) tenure as a mother of four, everyone HAS to pitch in. What I've also learned is that everyone, when given the chance, wants to. Hell, even the babies have been helping pack. (We put them in charge of CDs, matchbox cars and paper shredding.)
followed by two sails,
followed by three.
So (naturally) I called my mom and cried and then she called her mom and cried and then we all cried. Because that's what we do and signs, signs, everywhere signs and magic and magic signs and signs that point to magic and signs.
Because like I've written a hundred thousand times, it was Archer who made us a family.
Followed by a Hal and me.
Followed by three perfect girls.
"Hal, don't you see! It's a sign! It's the signiest of all the signs in signville!"
Hal stared at the picture of the roof for several moments before handing me back my phone. And I waited for him to roll his eyes, to shake his head and mock my enthusiasm. But he didn't. He couldn't.
Instead he gave me a little nudge. And then he kissed my face.