Some say, 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.' Others, namely my mom, 'this too shall pass.' I've even said 'give it two weeks.'
It's been more than two weeks. 27 days to be precise. And it still feels like we are very much in the thick of our transition from Chicago to our new hometown. We're not dead. Bruised and beaten down a bit, but surviving. Heck, thriving.
My blog has provided relief or rather self therapy in the past. So too shall it play that role today.
So let's pick up where we left off. It was Margaret's birthday. I got home (or rather to Opa's house, where we were staying), from Connecticut just in time. I bought her Kirschbaum's donuts for breakfast, hosted a little party in the park with her friends, took her out to dinner, put a candle in her ice cream which she didn't eat. And made her feel like the queen of the world. Her cuteness and sweetness and just about ready for kindergarten-ness deserved it. But oh shoot, the babies weren't feeling well. And Mary went to bed saying her throat was scratchy.
Friday morning. Last day loading up our house before the move. And ... good morning to high fevers all around. Babies, Bobby, Mary and Margaret. All down for the count. Bobby threw up twice sitting at the breakfast table, then went back to bed. Mary's head was killing her. Margaret shrugged it off and played with her new toys. I drank gallons of water, hoping my throat would turn un-scratchy. We all had Covid. Well except Peter. Peter never gets sick.
Saturday, and I couldn't get out of bed. Fever, no appetite, lethargic, rather immobile for the majority of the day. This was not mild symptom Covid. It was bad symptom Covid. Bobby basically didn't wake up for 48 hours.
Regardless, that afternoon, I pulled myself out of bed ate a couple of Mrs. Larsen's cookies and found it in me to say goodbye to our empty house. I walked inside, all freshly scrubbed and polished from our wonderful cleaning ladies, Maria and Aracelli. Tears streamed down my face. I cried hard, ugly cried. Especially when Claire and Trent drove by to say their goodbyes. Man, I loved that house. That yard. That street. Everything. Why were we moving again? Oh yeah, cause of me.
I wiped my eyes dry. Ate nothing for dinner. And vowed that I would be better in the morning. I was. And Eva came over to help big time. God bless Eva. What would we do without Eva part 10,000. We cancelled our flights and drove to our new home, several states away. The twins and Mary in my car, Bobby and Margaret with Peter. I got Eva. PA or bust.
We made it to the AC Hotel downtown without much drama and quarantined ourselves for another day. I slept well - earplugs in. Peter slept terribly - no earplugs in. His room was right next to train tracks and boasted screeching locomotive sounds all night long.
The next morning, I took the babies for a run along the river and got donuts. We live and die by donuts clearly. As soon as I got back, Peter went to the new house to help the movers. And the construction workers who were still finishing off our light house renovations. Today they would finish. I was convinced.
Day 1 brought excitement and promise and possibility. Mary's bunk goes here, the piano there, the coffee pot right ... there. And then there was water. In the basement, in the master bathroom, in the Jack and Jill. And the 120-year old creaky, cracky cast iron pipes showed their true and terrible side. Or the side not present on our inspection. Fast forward to the diagnosis and prognosis - they all need to be replaced.
As we were unpacking throughout the next week, light construction turned to plowing through walls of the house and a ton of dust as we ripped out the old and put in PVC. The sounds whirring through our house in the first week were incredible: banging, bumping, sanding, sawing, jackhammering, Mexican music, footsteps up and down, up and down, men grunting from carrying some of the heaviest furniture up two and three flights of stairs, babies crying, kids whining, People talking on the phone, me teetering on the verge of defeat. But I had to stay strong. This had to be it right. Why did this have to be so hard? And come on, this is it okay, we cannot manage anything more right now.
Then Margaret got a tick bite and we were scrambling to find a doctor and medicine.
Then on the first day of my job, no one told me where to be or when. I found out mid-morning I was supposed to be in Columbus for a meeting. I was nowhere near Columbus. I might have cried as HR was telling me it would be okay.
Then the kids got stains on their new carpets, which I didn't clean correctly, and Peter got mad. At that moment, I felt like we had made the wrong decision. And what if we had? What does that mean?
I started to think about all the great things that happened. Not all the challenges. In those thoughts were so many signs that things were going to be okay. Not okay, great. We've been able to see and be with my family, the kids with their cousins (after our Covid tests came back negative of course), we've hung out with my high school friends, we've met new friends including a bunch of interesting and kind people at the most beautiful and thoughtful welcome dinner organized and cooked by our backdoor neighbor, we've created new rooms and more spaces to play, we are right near museums, have new bike riding routes, have pruned ourselves at the pool, and eaten many popsicles at cafe. You can certainly see the desirables through the construction dust.
I am hopeful our house is finished with phase 1 of an attempt to breath new life into it this week. The kids are back in school and doing well thus far. Peter and I took a much needed break - a time to reset and celebrate our wedding anniversary in Charlottesville. And on the drive back home, along the country roads of Virginia and West Virginia, I realized we're going to be fine. Not fine, excellent.
Because perhaps a better saying is what doesn't kill you, makes for a better story. And after 11 years of marriage, we've accumulated some great ones - including the one of this last month.
Lo.
