Years ago, I lived alone in a renovated one-room schoolhouse. Alone. Did I mention that I lived alone? Weekends consisted of sleeping in, or lying in bed all day with a GREAT book (it was here that I first read the Outlander books, and Thornyhold). I'd nosh on cheese, pickles, and crackers, or bread with honey, and copious amounts of tea. I particularly loved a rainy Saturday morning. There was absolutely no guilt involved; my house was small and messy, but it was all mine, as was my time.
If I sound like I'm nostalgic for that time in my life, it's because I am. I can't say I wouldn't trade a MOMENT of my present life to be back there (like the screaming tantrum moments, the endless laundry moments, the what's-for-dinner moments)...but only a moment.
Back then, happy though I was, I wondered about my future; I was casually dating a few people, but in my mid-late twenties, had no idea what my life held for me. I could equally picture myself growing into an eccentric old spinster, as seeing myself married with children.
I soon met Robin, and that decided my future.
After spending much of the night with Margot in our bed (which is like sleeping with a whole litter of big, squirmy puppies, and waking constantly to find them at your feet, wedged between your legs, on your face), we were awakened at 7:30 by all three kids climbing into our bed. Margot declared, "My hungwy!" and up I got.
It's a cloudy morning. And I realised that this is the first Saturday in 8 weeks where I don't have to get out the door for some event or another. There've been birthdays, showers, weddings, plant sales, and so on since early May, EVERY SATURDAY.
Coffee. My nightgown. Cheerios with milk ON THE SIDE for the girls. Another coffee. A movie for the sleepy kids in pyjamas. And the sound of crickets and birdsong pouring through the window along with a fresh, damp breeze.
messes, sleepless nights, laundry, screaming, and all.