First, the complaints …
The move to Connecticut was not the smoothest. I’m still grumpy about it, truth told. Stretched over three days, the whole ordeal felt more like two weeks. And with each phase something funky was tossed in our path. Oh, it’s a rain storm? Oh, a parking ticket too? No way … a huge gash on my foot … from a torn, rain-soaked bag carrying heavy cable boxes and a modem … for me? Really? Excellent!
Then at the new house, big carpenter ants decided to come out of their hole-homes to throw us a welcome party. They, of course, invited a few of their spider and cricket friends who plus-one’d some other random crawlers. Yay!
And we won’t get into the Noah’s Ark situation happening with the wild turkeys, deer, hawks, chipmunks, and geese. Plus, we are in the running for The Most Poison Ivy Ever award. Fingers crossed.
We’re still in the complaints portion of this thing, friends, so have a seat.
After unpacking the key rooms — The Youngster’s, the bathrooms and the kitchen — as best we could, it was time to call it a very late night. We dug out some fresh sheets from a box, made up the bed and got ready to turn in. For me this meant grabbing a quick shower, an attempt to wash off the taxing day. I slid into the stall, expecting a therapeutic gush.
Oh, man. Big mistake. Expectations are the promises of fools. Didn’t Mark Twain or some other quotable notable say that?
This is well water here. So the water pressure is basically the exact opposite of “pressure.” And if you’re bold enough to run the washing machine while taking a shower? Psssh, it’s tricklin’, baby. And for a shower girl like me, this revelation was perhaps the biggest punch in the ribs so far.
By the time I got into bed, I was flat out sulking. I turned out the light. It was pitch black in the room. I could hear my husband breathing and absolutely nothing else. I looked around through the darkness.
“Why did you bring us here?” I said quietly. My voice on the verge of something.
“We’re a family,” my husband said. “We’ll be fine.” I felt him reach for me before his hand touched my shoulder.
The next morning, after my two boys made their way to living room for father-son chill + circus time, I was alone in our new bedroom. I couldn’t sleep, my mind didn’t make room for rest. I got up, pulled open the curtains and looked out at the rainy, grey skies.
I was still grumpy.
My foot was still bandaged and probably bleeding a bit.
And this move — the total uproot to a state about which I know very little — was still real.
But standing there, watching the birdhouse in the distance in our new backyard, somehow I felt the kernels of happiness beginning to pop a little. My stony disposition was softening, and I was warming up to it all. Slowly.
That, or the well water had seeped into my skin short-circuiting my city girl common sense.