During our time as a military family, we blew into a new town every three years or so. Anxious to wrap my babies (and myself) in some sense of normalcy, I would set up house lickety-split, or as quickly as I could. When my kids were little, success looked like unpacking a box or two a day or dangling a single picture frame on a nail. I was moving in a forward direction, so I considered it progress.
We are no longer an active duty military family, but just the same we recently moved to a 1970s split level house, a house undergoing construction.
Many of our belongings remain in boxes as the rooms that will hold them stand dredged in sawdust. Quirky realities of our life right now include my clothes hanging in my sons’ closet and my husband and I sharing a bathroom with our daughter. Speaking of our daughter, we’re also bunking in a corner of her bedroom. She recently informed us, with a tone drenched in dramatic flair, that she can’t wait to have her own room back. My husband and I looked at one another then looked at her and said, “The feeling is mutual, m’dear.”
These realities are more inconvenient than terrible, of course. Nevertheless, it’s clear we’re in a holding pattern of sorts, and at the tempo we’re moving, it’ll be awhile before we progress further.
One would think this means I have all the time in the world to employ my favorite kind of creativity: writing.
But when I sit down to do so, this is what happens: I tap my foot. I investigate the sawing/hammering noise outside. I decide to do a load of laundry. The electrician or plumbing inspector rings the door bell.
So do you know what I’ve discovered instead?
And if you’d like more solid encouragement to help you through your own season of routine or unexpected change, click here.