Generally, I’ve tried to stop myself from being in the practice of hurrying time. As a kid we all wanted to be bigger, to ride the two wheeler, hit the height bar to go on the cool ride at the fair, to stay up later, as a young adult I couldn’t wait to get married, to buy a house, to have kids, and then as a mother I was always thinking it will be easier when they can sit on their own, crawl, walk, share (?). And suddenly, here I am, four years and some months have gone by since the day they the littles where born, and I’m not exactly sure how I got here. With Natalia I’ve been far happier to let her stay little, in fact we still call her the baby. I’m more keenly aware that I’m working my way toward death these days, and while I’m not fearful of my age, nor am I generally morbid, I am aware, perhaps more keenly, that even young people die, so I should make the very most of each day.
But waiting to move to the Farmhouse is: P A I N F U L L. Its my dream house, tha’ts for sure. I can’t wait to be there to live. The house we live in is brand new, so we have no yard fo the kids to play in. The previous owners let their dog use the living room as its toilet, and they were heavy smokers. And since we’ve tried to unpack as little as possible boxes are everywhere. With no finished basment it feels small. It’s brand new, the kind of house that people have built and wait to move into, but I can’t stop dreaming about moving into my 1912. I have so many plans and can’t wait to start living farm life. Time seems to be moving painfully slooooow these days. I wish it was August already!