It’s freezing, in comparison to the weekend. On Sunday, it was warm enough that I was wishing the professional-installation of fans included the installation of the blades (seriously?!). Three days later, I’m several mis-matched layers of clothes deep (where are all my pants?!), blanket piled on my lap as I type. I gaze around for a hat nearby, but decide to tough it out in lieu of getting up to find one.
It’s not really cold. We’re New Englanders after all, and its only early October. This isn’t even the beginning of what’s to come. It’s just a cool rainy fall day.
In our house however, it’s raw. I have three blankets on each of the sleeping kids, and I was able to talk our two-year-old into napping with a hat on today. The windows are thrown open in all rooms, though I did stuff wrinkled curtains into the top to the kids windows to reduce the breeze and water coming in. Someday I’ll install curtain rods. I just can’t bring myself to close the windows, with the stank of polyurethane permeating everything and everyone. I guess four days of airing out wasn’t long enough. The smell has to be coming off of me, like the cloud that follows smokers around their lives.
Each day, I unpack two to four boxes. Put stuff in new places, throw some away, put some in a pile to donate. Yet it seems as though, while the boxes await their turn, they breed. I trip over boxes that couldn’t possibly have been there the day before.
Yesterday, our plumber unnecessarily walked with his muddy boots through my bedroom to fix our shower, while I was downstairs getting the kids a snack. I successfully did not strangle him. If he doesn’t finish the work tomorrow, I may not be so successful.
Laundry piles up because I can’t find a laundry basket to put it in, and I’m not quite desperate enough to use a box to hold our dirty/clean laundry. And the dog food is currently being stored in front of the washer, creating yet another obstacle/excuse.
After school yesterday, the kids and I found ourselves gravitating to the kitchen. With only barely-controlled chaos that our home is these days after the weekend move, we all tend to want something grounded and homey. Something warm. So what did I do, when I was darn close to melting down with the stress of it all?
I made broth. I let it bubble in the crock pot all night, served up steaming bowls of it this afternoon along with dinner. The kids were wiggly and whining with the “mama, I’m coooolllddd” mantra that I wasn’t letting myself say out loud, yet somehow the moaning halted as they slurped and made messes of warm soup sliding down their arms, the little one sucking the soup off her fingers. The aroma of cooking broth covered up the chemicals that cover our beautiful old floors, filled our room with that oh-so-familiar warmth and homeyness. In our only moderately-controlled chaos, food grounds us and keeps us sane.
This new kitchen is ugly, compared to our old one. Yet it’s cozy and warm and I hardly notice the musty smell still lingering in the cabinets. We’re coming up for air in our new neighborhood, ever so slowly. I’m dying to make some bread here and dive into the warm loaf with tons of butter as I gaze around the new view. I only fear that my husband might be less happy to come home to home-baked bread than he’d be to find the elusive box with his shoes inside.
But boxes bore me and he has one pair of shoes available, so in all likelihood we’ll have some fresh bread this week as we come up for air and relax upon the surface or this fabulous 100+ year home that we happen to adore. And soon, I’ll get back in my grove of work and newsletters, so be sure to sign up here!