I've been away from this blog for awhile. I know.
But see, we are trying to move. Just thinking about moving is hard, but actually trying to move is even harder. I guess, logically, moving from trying to move to moving itself is the hardest — say what?— but we're not there yet. We're in the purging and painting stage.
And in the disagreeing about where to move to stage.
But that's another blog post.
As part of our "Look! Our small, over-crowded house has more room" plan, Chuck cleared out one half of our unfinished basement. I helped but truth be told, half of the mess down there were wires and cables he's brought home. It's an odd thing to hoard, but he's in the IT field and we all have our thing. Mine is rugs. Mostly floral.
And blankets. Mostly (again) floral.
I wish I felt the urge to hoard something smaller, like thimbles, but alas, I'm drawn to large squares of fabric. Jute, cotton, wool, fleece. I can't help myself.
Chuck braved the dank, spider-ridden crevices of the basement. He vacuumed. He cleaned the cement walls. He hung curtains and bought rug squares (I'll never let them go!). He even set up desks and lights. Then the older boys — 10 year old Junior and 7 year old Everett — brought all of their Legos and video games down to the newly created Small Man Cave and eagerly closed the door behind them.
That left me and Cam, standing in the now almost vacant den. It was eerily quiet.
"Hello?" I jokingly called out.
"Yah Mom?" Junior and Everett yelled through the floor.
"Are you gone, just like that?" I called.
"We'll be back up for dinner!"
I had the strange feeling that they'd left for college. Of course they were right downstairs, in the basement, but the packing up and moving part wouldn't leave my mind. It all happened so fast. And I was left with such a mess of Lego parts and quiet.
I remember when Junior was one. I wrote a post about him growing up. It seems unbelievable that he'll be 11, but what is more unbelievable is how your older children accelerate the growing up process of their siblings. As if the oldest grabs the hand of the younger child, and so on, and they form a chain and zip through time. All you can do is stand in a fuzzy haze and watch. Thanks to Junior, Everett is as smooth and cool as a tweenager. And Cam. The kid is three going on 21.
Back in 2008 — gawd this blog is old — I wrote about Junior: "... I kept
thinking, I am pouring my soul into this child and every day letting him
go and it is enough to burst and break my heart at the same time."
I still feel that way. Times three.
Personalized quilts with their faces. That's how I'll manage I guess. I'll get quilts and more quilts beaming with my children's faces, and Chuck can cuddle his wires and I'll cuddle my blankets and hopefully we won't strangle ourselves in quilts and cords when no one's home to see it.
Sniff, sniff. The nerve of those kids! Leaving us all alone to fend for ourselves!
Someone hand me a rug square?
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