perfectionism

I am a type A personality.  I am fastidiously organized and attentive to the minutest of details.  Multitasking comes easily and I enjoy pulling together of all the snapshots to create the big picture.  I can create the vehicle with many moving parts.

I see it.  I reach it.  The threshold.

I hold myself to a high standard because I feel I have the skills to do what I expect, envision and strive for.

Group projects were something I abhorred as a child.  I knew my expectations and vision would most likely not be carried out to my specifications.  The *image* was in MY head.  This meant that my only attempt at successful execution of my image was to do it myself.  And I often did.  Or at least most of it.

Instead of seeing the skills of others as a beautiful menagerie of sorts, I saw it as a burden of unattainable perfectionism.

Parenting ripped open the veil of control I had lived within for years.  It shredded it to pieces.  Most of the things I had expected and planned for was tossed aside.  The early days of newborn sleep deprivation, hormonal wackiness and nursing learning curves forced me to find footing on a shifting ground.  It began to warm my hard edges into something more malleable and alter my mindset.

I was a very capable mother and all my type A skills were put to use.

But that *image* was like a warped reflection of what I’d been envisioning.

I remember our first walk with Pepper.  She was six days old and I was healing into a more upright position after a c-section.  The weather was turning from summer to fall with a teasing coolness in the expected warmth in the sun.  We set out.  A dreamy first memory – new parents, first baby, sunny day, brand new stroller purchased just for new baby.

Our expectation was disturbed by the absolutely indisputable unhappiness of our child.  She wailed.  She screamed.  She had an instant aversion to being alone.  She absolutely hated being in the stroller.

I was flummoxed.

We listened and adjusted.  We made accommodations.  I tenderly bent over, pulled her from the empty void of the stroller and wrapped her next to my chest.  We weren’t prepared with a wrap or carrier with just my arms to hold her.  I gingerly walked for an embarrassingly short distance embracing Pepper.

She was content.  Our first walk as a family was in the books.

This was the start of  sluffing off the boundaries of control.  Walking into the ever changing unknown.

This week is our community’s annual gingerbread display.  The girls begged to enter one in this year’s “competition” after visiting and admiring all the creations last year.

So, we did. We pulled together a gingerbread house fit for our 5 month old puppy – Gibson.   Using a leftover theme and framework from a Halloween house, we had the perfect makings for “Gibson’s Dog House”.   There were graveyard bones, graham cracker dog biscuits biscuits and an arched doorway sized for a pooch.  We raided the bulk food section picking out small portions of a variety of sweet treats.  I whipped up supremely sturdy bright white Royal icing.  The decorations were sorted into muffin tins and icing filled easy to use (read: relatively not messy) ziploc bags.  I secured the house to its regulation size base and stepped aside.

I let them go.

A flurry of creativity was unleashed.  Fingers were licked.  Pretend play happened alongside imaginative expression.  The dog to whom the house is gifted mopped up sprinkles, coconut and other delights from the floor.

The house looks nothing like a dog house.  Nothing.

Not a single bone was used.

The door was covered by a zombie like creature, formerly a gingerbread ghost, decked out in peppermint bits and chocolate chip eyes numbering 3-1/2.

The words “Gibson’s Dog House” are a completely illegible combination of ghoulish frosting and randomly interspersed candies.

This is so clearly not my gingerbread creation.

And, that is okay.  More than okay.

It is fabulous.  It is what memories are made of.  It is what feeds their creative soul.

That, all of that, is more than I could have ever hoped to gain in controlling the goal of perfectionism.

Here’s to “Gibson’s Dog House” – the creative chaos of parenthood and all its unexpected opportunities.

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bravery

As the girls grow older, it becomes more clear just how much of parenting is leading by example.

Sometimes it is modeling.  Sometimes it is narratives. And sometimes it is definable actions that become rooted memories.

For a child, like Pepper, who needs to learn, practice and continually hone her skills of emotional regulation and impulse control – I provide a living, breathing concrete example of how to do this.  At my best parenting moments my example is spot on.  At my lowest, my actions and reactions show her just how long the learning process is and that I am still doing just that at 36 years old.  My apologies model relationship repair and the opportunity to take our mistakes and learn from them.

Every single thing I do is with the intense judgement of an influential audience watching, waiting, learning, modeling and growing.

The good parenting moments outweigh the rough ones.

Taking a hold of these opportunities for growth makes me a better mom, a better partner and a better friend.

The last week and a half have been hard.  So hard.  The way it is playing out on social media.  The actions that are being taken against minorities.  The divide, hostilities and downright discomfort that are forming in families and friendship.  The colors that are appearing and hardening.  The glue that is holding me transfixed to the mainstream media and loss of control as things play out.

Despite my years of practice, I feel completely ill equipped to put the feelings I have into comprehensible words.  The rawness makes it feel like physical expression is the only thing that justly honors the ache and angst.

I know my role for children.  I know the foundation we have laid.  I know the family values we uphold and the honor we have raised them with.  I know the tenets of their Montessori education and the all encompassing worldview these create.  I know the solid ground they stand on.  They will forever be kind, safe and helpful.  This I have no doubt of.

It is the fight I am being called to that I am struggling with.

I want to fuel a flame of beautiful power in my girls.  I want to support their divine feminine.  I want to help open their eyes to the realization of all they are as females and all they can be.  I want them to see the reins, feel them in their hands and plow their path.

I want to be brave.  I want to stand tall in all of that, too.  The gifts, opportunities, realizations and truths.

I avoid conflict like an infectious outbreak.  It goes against my nature in so many ways.  I see the energy and gauge whether the interactions I partake in add or drain from this energy.

Will voicing my concern fall on deaf ears?  Will my cup be the only one left empty besides a fill of angst?  What was gained, at my expense, from my expression?

And perhaps, most terrifyingly honest of all, do I have the conviction and strength to weather that?  Am I weak?

My past path is not one paved with bravery.  I often take the path of least resistance and self preservation.  If I look back, I am aware that some of my feelings of inadequacy are deeply rooted in adolescent bullying.  I am no longer 12 years old.  I am stronger.  But am I strong enough?  Brave enough?

I am being bombarded with the message to rise up.  A call to action I don’t turn away from but have yet to embrace.  To rebel with grace and respect.  To stand up for the people I believe in.  The organizations I support.  The lifestyles I care about.  The incredible diversity.  All of the things that are being threatened.

My dollars speak one language.  My words another.  Even my skin color sends a message.  My voice is loud.   But my actions are undeniably powerful.  Boldest.

I feel a deep and unexplainable need to set the example.  To live out the words we’ve practiced and committed to.  To root the memories deep.

To stand tall.  With you.

To use my voice to say it’s not okay.

To use my body as a model of who I am and what I believe.  To hold the space in the group and be one of the many sending the same message.

I want to be brave.

the choice of information

I am a firm believer and potential preacher of the notion that positive energy is as infectious as negative energy. But, I also attest to the idea that positive energy is compounding in a slower growing process than a hit of negativity. Positive energy builds and blooms. Negativity is like a guillotine. It is swift and shocking and takes time to recover from. A dark cloud that hangs menacingly if there is no conscious decision to step out and away.

I made a bold choice a few weeks ago. I decided to stop reading the news. It was a borderline rash decision that came from a moment of desperation to simplify my life.

It was cold turkey. No more local news. No more smutty news about celebrities and their melodrama. No more national news swirling with political propaganda and hate.

The television is rarely on in our house and has never been turned to news. The television news is unpredictable at best with its focus on shock value. It is overwhelmingly depressing with a string of terrifying and worrisome stories about what is going wrong in our world. We choose not to subject our family, our children, to this type of news.

But, the written news has insidious tentacles. It pulls you in and grabs your attention when there is a lull, a bit of boredom and a searching need to fill the space. It has a hook that snags.

It is informative. There is absolutely no doubt of this. It keeps us up to date on what is happening in our world. It gives us a briefing on the bits that affect our future and our current state of affairs.

When I made the choice to stop reading the news, I had a momentary panic attack. I worried I was becoming an ostrich who would be stuck with my head in the sand. A complete unawareness of what was happening out there.

A girl can dream right?

With the access to information of any type, and reliability, ready at our fingertips and a multitude of social media options, it is nearly impossible to step away completely.

Right now I am choosing to separate from the outlets that do not give me the news I want. The positive energy. The stories that restore faith in humanity. The stories that tell of kindness. That stories full of hope.

Not pipe dreams. Not rose colored glasses. Reality.

Presented without an emphasis on shock value.

Last week I fell of the wagon a bit. I was in the quiet place of no interruptions and a desire to fill the minutes with something. I opened our local newspaper’s website and was blasted with a headline. A tempting rabbit hole that I fell straight down.

A current swim instructor had been arrested for videotaping female employees at our local pool. It appeared to be an isolated incident based on the headline. But, I didn’t leave it there. I opened the article, I kept reading. I got hooked and was thrown a disconcerting curveball.

Upon his arrest, he was found to be in possession of child porn.

I took a step back in time. I went back in my memory bank and replayed a specific incident. One that left me icky and unsettled four years ago.

This man was a teacher of a Pepper’s for eight swim lessons when she was three years old. My observations told me he was a good man. No red flags. No radar blips. Nothing.

Midway through our swim session, I was pulled aside after a lesson by another mom in the locker room. Her student was in a different class. She told me that I needed to pay closer attention to my child during lessons because this man was pushing the line.

The lessons were 25 minutes long. I sat poolside and was within 20-feet of my child at all times. The entire lesson.

My initial reaction to her statement was offense at what I perceived to be her suggestion that I was not aware of something happening right.in.front.of.my.face.

I moved to being defensive of this seemingly okay man who was being potentially demonized for no obvious wrongdoing.

And, then I dug deeper. I doubted my ability as a parent to protect my child because it seemed obvious I had missed something. Otherwise she would not have mentioned anything. Right?

We finished out the session. I turned on my hawk eyes and flexed my mama bear muscles. I settled Pepper’s questioning of what she had overheard from this parent and did my best to sooth her worried queries.

I vented to Thor and spewed my thoughts in a dizzying fashion.

Four years later, I opened this news story.

And, I was socked full fist deep into my gut and spent spinning back on the merry-go-round of mixed emotions.

I have no fear that my child was unsafe during those swim lessons so long ago and am confident that no lines were crossed.

I began wondering again what signs I had missed that this other mom saw. I had doubt of my ability as a parent to protect.

I wept tears of gratitude that no more lessons were enrolled in with this same teacher.

I evaluated why I had stepped over the ledge into the rabbit hole. What had I gained from this knowledge?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing positive.

I did not need the information. The past is the past. Truly just that.

I cannot change that eight week swim session. I cannot go back in time and put on different glasses or see new information.

The only thing I received was a deep sense of vulnerability for the evil that is in this world and an opportunity to question my capabilities as a parent.

This is not worth it for me. Having the information is not worth the negative energy that swirled and erupted as a result of simply being informed.

As I move forward, I choose to spread joy and find the hope. The kindness. The good.

I choose to seek information that will allow me to grow, to learn, and to parent better. To love more fully.

That is what I can control and what I can surround myself with. And, right now, the mainstream news does not support that. One harsh lesson at time and I am moving forward.

self love

Body image has been on my mind a lot lately.  It is summer and we just wrapped up a vacation that had a single common denominator of HOT.  Temperatures of 90+ degrees and off grid camping had given us the goal of finding water as early as our day started and floating, swimming, splashing the heat away.

One of my triggers in the thought process of body image is the simple truth that the lack of clothing worn is generally a direct correlation to the rise in temperature.

The second is an honest confession of how I feel about my body.

Hanging around a pool is a good time to do some watching, thinking and considering.

I posted the following diatribe this week on social media.  It was an in the moment observation of what transpired for me in a 48 hour period.  It focused on #selflove.  And, it was a shout out to the village that is needed to raise us up, but too often kicks us down.

 

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I got a great deal of love in return.  I got some enthusiastic hollers of preach it.  And, some simple praise for speaking a truth we so often discount.

The point of my post was simple – we are all different.  Unique features of beauty.  Personal struggles with our self perceived shortcomings.  Insecurities.  Individual qualities that add to this patchwork of life and enrich our culture.  In consideration of this – we are all the same, too.  We each have a desire to change something.  Goals we are struggling to achieve.  Hurdles that keep us from strutting our stuff.

Sitting poolside while my girls played for hours gave me the opportunity to not only watch the people, but watch the individuals.

Day two was my day to become one of the many.  Put my bikini on.  Show my uneven tan lines thanks to my favorite tank top and reflect a bit of high desert sun off my white legs.  My squishy curves and round softness was not weakly hidden under a bathing suit marketed as flattering.  I was an open book.

And, my god, that is vulnerable.

I started with flip flopping nervousness and one weak attempt after another to show my “good side” or present just the right angle.

Then time got the best of me.  And heat.  And the eager beckoning of my children to join them under the waterfall.

Self love is a grandiose and truly idyllic goal.  It is one thing to preach that we all have our issues and things we are unsure of and embarrassed about, but it is entirely more vulnerable to lay them on the table and present them for others to see.  In the moment, it doesn’t matter that most people aren’t even walking by the table or glancing your way.

The world feels like your audience as you stand in the spotlight on stage.

So, I begin to wonder, can you achieve that idyllic goal of feeling authentic and honest self love while simultaneously acknowledging that you are not okay with some of the flaws that make you feel vulnerable?

I don’t know.  Perhaps it is a philosophically personal decision.  And, if it is, the idea that self love can be attainable by all feels like a ruse. A gimmick.

Can I truly love myself, for who I am in this moment with what I have, but still acknowledge fault and shortcomings?

I can love the way my breasts get fuller when I’m slightly overweight.  I can appreciate my lean fingers, smiling eyes and round Serbian cheeks.  I can find and list all the things I love.

But honesty for me means looking to the other side and seeing what can be improved.

What must change to bring me joy.

What I’m lacking that is needed for my self fulfillment.

One observation I made about my post was the lack of support from the followers and friends who are devoted to fitness extremes.  Perhaps it was a coincidence that my words and pictures didn’t cross their feeds or pop up on their timelines.

Or maybe it is that self love is unrelatable because it is akin to acquiescence and weakness.

The mantras and memes that circulate of getting off your ass, making today your day and starting your morning with a can do attitude do not seem to jive with honest acceptance for who we are in this moment.

The idea of guilt comes to mind.

Guilt is an incredibly powerful trigger and reminder to change a behavior or produce a different result.  Shameful guilt becomes an unhealthy manipulation of this powerful tool that teaches and reinforces socially acceptable behavior.

In this world where we are dogged with the idioms to be our own greatest fans, love ourselves as we are while we also reach our highest potential and strive for more, how do we find the place for self love?

Do we define self love as it best fits us personally and hold that truth to be evident for us?

I honestly don’t know.*

 

* My ramblings and complete lack of closure on the subject are a reminder of why I majored in cultural anthropology.  Making the queries, doing the research and pulling together the info are my muse.  Answering the questions is better served for others.

 

 

 

 

a new normal

Changes are inevitable. As the routines fall back into place and the rhythms start flowing again, the new “normal” begins to appear. I am a record on repeat when I say that I don’t do change. I physically prepare by tightening my armor. Locking my muscles, clenching my core and hunkering down. It is an auto pilot reaction.

Then I remember to breathe. And, stretch. Move. Dance. Anything to loosen up the knots and tightness. The change is inevitable, but how I handle it is not. It is choice.

Thor and I reached a point in our lives four years ago when we crossed into having spent more of our lives together than apart. This was by the numbers. A simple count of the calendar years. But, if you count the formation and growth that happened during some of these formative years, their accumulated value is much greater than their numerical score.

Children have been part of our lives for less time than we have had without them. A lot less. And, maybe that is where my hiccup is with defining and settling into this normal.

Sometimes I ache for the pre-kid days, where we slept long through the weekend mornings. Dates were plentiful and generously distributed between days, afternoons, evenings, weekends and weeks. Conversations were uninterrupted. Sadness overwhelms the longing for bygone days when I realize that these times will only return when my children have grown. The pudgy fingers, wild imaginations, sweet snuggles and dreamy days we are immersed in will be faded memories.

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Baseball season has started again. This classic tradition has been a part of Thor’s life from the time he could first toddle up to a ball-T and huck a ball to his dad. It is annual. It is the fire that fuels his flame. It grounds him as much as it gives him the release that allows for suredness and solidity.

It is his thing.   Always has been.

When I walked into his life, baseball inevitably became a part of mine. I was a constant fixture at every single game. At the beginning I did it for him. My presence gave him support. A familiar face in the crowd. I was a fan who sat through the endless double headers, rode shotgun for long weekend drives to one field after another and altered schedules, dinners and weekly plans around the game.

As the years have gone by, baseball has become a true love. My skills at keeping book evolved and I grew to enjoy the skill, strategy and team work that made for a good game. I became the diehard fan who truly appreciated a pitching duel and a game of extra innings that stretched into the night. I learned to love the slow pace and the intensity.

I was well practiced in decorating cupcakes like baseballs featuring each players’ numbers. I did not know teammates by their god-given name and referred to them by cockamamie nicknames that made no sense at all.

I was a part of the team, as close as I could be without stepping foot on the field.

A week after Pepper was born, my first outing was to a late night baseball game. Summer was winding down and it was the tail end of the season. Our sleepless nights were strung together with endless nursing sessions, so being huddled into the corner of the stadium, snuggled beneath a comforter with a suckling infant felt both strangely out of place and very normal at the same time.

I was reaching, aching, longing for a sense of familiarity in a very unsettling place of completely new territory.

But, it was not there. The comfort and stability had shifted dramatically. My focus was changed. I was no longer the fan in the stands whose eyes were honed in on the game.

With each game, my attentiveness grew more distant. My distractions accumulated. The book was no longer an accurate score of the game. Bit by bit, the distance extended. Both physically and metaphorically. As Pepper became more mobile, I started to watch from afar. The long jump sand pit was an enticing distraction. The sloping green hills were perfect for rolling, romping and sliding down. My only two eyes could not be on both the child and the game. The laws of nature were inevitably stacking up against me.

As Pepper grew, we were not fully aware of what the issues she had were called or what label they had and therefore didn’t have all the resources and help we do now. We were in the thick of being observant but not focused and practiced but not refined. So, we coped as best as we could. Rigid schedules with strict predictability and systematic approaches were key. Dialog that was rehearsed and repeated was necessary. Bedtimes that happened at the same time, same place and with the same structure was key. Sleep was her only respite (and ours) from manic energy and amped up emotions.

The baseball schedule did not jive with that of Pepper. There is no loaded energy in that sentence or emotions radiating from those words. It is a simple statement – a fact.

Spring brings the much needed “therapy” that keeps Thor grounded. It gives him the release and time he needs to reset his energy and parent with the best of his abilities. It is his thing, fully and completely his much needed passion.

Missing my role at each baseball game and the normal that was a part of our lives, as a couple, for so long fills me with a deep ache that is tinged with a nasty and embarrassing shade of green envy.

I want to be there.

I want that thing – that role, that place, that time back.

And, it is not coming back. There is grief. There is sadness.

This week I looked past my view and into that of the one I love, my partner. I sidestepped my fear of feeling like an outsider.

We went to the game. The absolute pleasure at having us there was visible. It was physical and tangible. It was audible as he pulled me close, held my cheek and said “You came.” His pleasure softened the harsh reality of a new normal.

I was interrupted every two minutes and the distant proximity of the scorebook made me feel at a loss for what was happening. I spent more time walking and watching the goings on off the field than the happenings inside the fence.

But, we came. The girls’ endless questions produced more knowledge about the game and a budding interest in what was happening with the uniforms, the cheers and the plays.

With practice, the etiquette will come. The questions will lessen.

Baseball and the role I play within the triangle of Thor, me and the sport he adores will never be as it was. But, the new normal will begin to shift and gradually appear.

The cast in life is set. We have to show up to figure out our new roles in the performance.

seeing the real world

We are living the city life. As big and bold as the “city of subdued excitement” can offer. But, to children who have always called the rural county home, it is a change.

A big change.

Our daily drives used to be long and tedious as we left the open fields and turned onto the freeway for the twenty miles one way it took to do our “life”. Now we are a hop, skip and jump from the city. A half mile walk down the trail to the heart of downtown. Less than fifteen blocks to Pepper’s school. A maze of bus routes to choose from.

It all there in front of us. Close enough to touch. The minutes are not spent in the car or watching the gas gauge visibly slide from full.

The bigger change, and one I did not forsee, is what we are seeing. Daily.

From our vantage point, the view has changed.

There are the semi-permanent campsites set up down the gulley from the walk we take into town. There are the old socks and empty bottles under the stairway we descend to our favorite trail. And, there are the same faces we see on the doorsteps, along the covered porches, huddled in sleeping bags and holding their signs. Our main road is littered with trash from top to bottom and the variety is a real life lesson in habits and lifestyle.

It is a kind of “in your face” change that cannot be ignored or overlooked.

The girls are seeing life first hand – right there on the sidewalks we walk, outside their car window and to the sides of the trail we traverse to the park.

The city is not new to us. We would visit frequently and in the big scheme of the nation, it is blurb on the map of CITIES.

My initial fear was that it would be too much. Too big and too real for a childhood. And, my apprehension that their questions would be too difficult to answer and too real.

Here is the thing. It IS real. Very real. And, it’s obvious because it is not behind hidden doors or in the open farm fields we knew so well. It’s out there – in the wide open.

The questions the girls have asked are thought provoking and full of honest inquisitiveness.

“Why have we seen the same man five times this week in the same clothes? Why would he be wearing the same clothes?”

After seeing a man wearing a skull encased hood with hollow eyes and bulging teeth, my girls asked “Why would someone wear something so scary? Why would they choose to scare someone? Does he know Halloween is only one day in October?”

We meet their questions with as honest of an answer as possible. And, humanize the figments that homeless people become when we ignore their signs, cast downward glances and do not return a request with a polite reply.

Their admonishments are also vocal and overtly loud as they witness the wafting cigarette smoke and see the lit stub fall to the ground. Their solutions are real and an authentic attempt at problem solving as we traverse our streets with trash grabbers and a bag in hand. There is pride in this job well done and the hand that directly changed the – both theirs and ours – environment.

In this ever real world, we are not delving into the real as much as we could. There is rarely an explanation given to the query of why that smoke* smells “sweet and nice”. Or why we make the personal choice to not give money but support with small tangible tokens of help.

And, we assuage their fears with reassurance that our job is to protect and teach. We explain that a terrifyingly realistic outfit does not necessarily represent the person within the darkness.

We talk of demons and the battles that some struggle with. And, that addictions – whether it is something relatable and observed daily like cigarette smoke or more sinister in disguise – are real battles that can change people’s behaviors and actions.

I am glad that we are broaching subjects that are difficult for even the wisest adults to explain and reason.

We are facing them head on. I am facing my own fears and apprehensions as we talk of walking the walk. Providing help to those in need. Giving when we can.

It is hard. The situations are not easy and the questions ever changing and equally difficult.

But, they are real.

And, I am grateful that we are seeing it, talking about it and figuring how we can help it.

Because to a child, nothing is unfixable. There are second chances and new beginnings in everything.

*Marijuana is legal in our state and is occasionally smoked in public.

a house becoming a home

We are at four weeks since moving and three weeks into sharing 700 square feet of living space. All the boxes are unpacked – at least what made the cut as high enough priority to be allotted a bit of space in this small condo. The nooks and crannies have their residents. The routine is becoming just that – predictable and second nature. The top to bottom weekly cleaning of every surface is an easy 60-minute job start to finish. The short stroll to the trail that winds along the water and drops us at the best beach with the best park and lends itself to a dock that weaves into the cutest of artsy towns you ever did see is becoming like a walk to the mailbox. Just another one of those things you do.

And, it’s good. So damn good. This place we’ve plopped down for a bit. It’s not “home” and I still refer to it as the “condo”. It’s not a pretentious description but a bit of safe guarding for a term that is special and dear to my heart – home.

The thing is that we have jumped off the treadmill for a bit. We were running for so long and so hard that we had overlooked the toll the robotic movements and rhythms of daily life were taking. But, now we are here.

There is one utility bill to pay. One single bill. It’s bizarrely simple.

There is a confined space of 25 feet by 30 feet. Just that. And a single wall of windows with a 180-degree of the bay.

The garbage gets picked up and the recycle taken away. What day the big truck comes – I don’t know. My bag and waste head down to the dumpster and bins every other day.

The laundromat downstairs with its assembly line of multiple machines has become a welcome addition to the crazy volume of dirty clothing rambunctious, free wheeling kids create.

Household items have become multi-taskers. The salad spinner the perfect home for runaway Tupperware lids. Four mugs for four people jokingly means one hot drink per day.

The simple life is good. It is just right.

The skinny budget with uncomfortably tight margins is remarkably loose. Account balances are heading upward instead of holding steady.

Then there are the touches. The luxurious finishes in the bathroom and kitchen are top notch. Silently closing doors, solid granite countertops and full tiles that artistically wrap around and flow from floor to ceiling. The expense was not spared when this condo was remodeled. I am savoring it all because I don’t know if I will ever live like this again.

A month ago a cute (cuhhhhh-yooooooooot is a more accurate description) came on the market. We drove by and looked it over. But, we honestly scoffed at the asking price (gulp!) and the lack of opportunity to realistically react because of the ridiculously fast pace houses are moving around here.

But, here we are 30+ days later and it is still on the market. And, the price is threatening to drop.

It is near perfect. That dreamy list of must-haves and wants mixed with pipe dreams has more check marks than anything we have found so far. There is potential. There is the possibility of real return on our investment. And, it is adorable. All the quaint character of a true craftsman.

An offer means the possibility of a new “home” and one very deserving of that sacred word.

It also means another hop, skip and a jump onto that crazy treadmill. An endless to-do list of things to improve and fix from the small mundane pulling of weeds to the bigger projects that turn a weekend into work. It’s as turn key as we will get for being almost 100 years old and I know that the to do list is a matter of preference – high standards and ideals that we hold our home and our possessions to.

It is homeownership again. It is weight and responsibility.

I like this. This place where we are at. This ease. The opportunity to have other people take care of stuff for a bit. It feels good. It is settling and comforting.

This condo isn’t home. That much I’m sure of.

But, I don’t know if this house is either.

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