I boiled the kettle, twice. And still I sat down tea-less.
And the ache at the front of my head is back, and I hate to sound like a whine, but you really must know it's not all rosy. Not that I ever pretend it to be, but it seems to be what I focus on, and I want you to know it's not all happy and baking and tidy. It's messy, and I'm tired, and I feel like I have been packing and scrubbing and packing and scrubbing for weeks.
And trying to bake, and prepare for Christmas, and make teacher gifts, and wrap kids presents, and find places to hide them because the usual places are bare.
And only getting out a handful of decorations, and even then, returning some to the box because it was messy.
Life is messy, and imperfect, and we killed the Christmas tree and the space where it stood all proud with it's lights, all merry and bright, is now empty, and the carpet there covered in pine needles.
We lost the scent of pine days ago, probably when the tree stopped drinking, neglected.
Neglected as I packed and scrubbed, and took in the details of this house that I'll miss. Not the house in particular I suppose, just the home we made of it. The memories, that I'll box up, and bring with us.
And we move tomorrow, and I'm excited. Excited for wooden floors, and timber window frames, and the character of the type of houses I've loved and admired and hoped for, for years. Excited to make home, and nest, and live a simpler, less cluttered, less comparing life.
But already aching for the friend leaving that house. A friendship I've treasured for years, even more so in the years we've shared backyards, and onions, and unintended yet cherished chats by the trampoline, and long, drawn-out cups of teas in kitchens when the tinkering has stopped, and company is necessary. I miss her already, and the sound of our kids, and the back-and-forth on those long afternoons. I miss the early-morning tiptoes across dewy grass to pray together (remember those days, my Peach?!), while our children still slept. I already miss Easter egg hunting, and lazy summer barbecues, and days just knowing she's there, even if we don't see each other.
But I'm excited. For her new, lovely house. For new doors of opportunity being opened for her, and her beautiful family. For the sea change, and the season, and I'm grateful that they're our forever friends, and grateful a three hour drive won't change that.
And I'm trying to remember not to snap at my kids, who don't understand the hugeness, the impending change. I'm trying to celebrate them and where they are at right.now. My big girl finished Kindy today, and the thought of her, in school, in that gingham dress every day next year makes my stomach drop with a strange combination of excitement and dread.
And the toothless first grader finishes tomorrow, and is already excited for year 2. And when I tucked him in tonight I studied his freckles and his dark eyes and he talked to me about when he's "twelve like Jack" and the things he will do, and I just hoped he would still love me the way he does now.
And each of these paragraphs could have been a whole blog post. Maybe one day. But for now I need a cup of tea, and a shower. Because the tea will solve the headache issue, and the shower will hide my tears. Sigh. It's been a big month.
Photo from that day of my bed, and a paper/fabric garland hanging above it.
It no longer hangs there. It's in a box. With almost everything else.