Not quite home but we’re getting there...
Yesterday we moved to our newest temporary home as we wait (and wait and wait) for our home to be ready. I would be so much more excited if there was a new kitchen at the end of all this waiting—structural work can be hard to rally behind—but at this point, just the thought of having my pots and pans back makes me swoon. Airb&b hosts don’t outfit their kitchens actually expecting people to cook I’ve learned.
Packing and unpacking has lots its charm (if it had any to begin with) but—perspective—it’s hardly worth crying over. Accept when you do. Unintentionally. And in front of your children. Their eyes big with worry watching you pushing tears away as fast as you can. Crumb. Insisting nothing was wrong was probably the worst thing I could have done but, you know, there’s no manual for any of this. Big long hugs and kisses and we were out the door to school. Me, certain I have scarred them forever, them, probably not giving it a second thought.
Cooking has always been a form of therapy for me; all the little steps melding into a meditation. And so it was today. Working in the kitchen as the sun streamed in, clarity—and perspective—returned. The knot in my stomach unwound and I saw past this moment to our real kitchen table, in our real house, remembering the beginning of our LA life together. And no one seemed particularly damaged. In fact, it all looked worth waiting for. ️ - 6 hours ago