And, just quietly, if anyone had ever told me three years ago that I would be taking snaps of my sweet little daughter eating a sandwich on a picnic rug in her front yard under a big ole maple, I'd have laughed my head orf at them.
I feel like I look and sound as if I'm am one step away from donning cotton gardening gloves and calling myself Mrs Fulton, Margaret Fulton*, and putting on a bright apron with sunny buttercups on it. I am finding it harder to fight the urge, moving to a house like this, and it reminds me of something my Homoeopath (remember him?) said to me almost off-handedly, ages ago just after I had Lolly. He said, "Why are you resisting being a mum?" It rocked me then and it's stayed with me til now. But maybe this is all part of that. This move might be just what I need to actually make the outside match the inside and feel comfortable enough in my ability and desire to just go with it, instead of being in this sort of half-life I'm still in, in so many respects.
Give in to the urge, is what everything is starting to nag me. And when I do, it'll be natural - the things I do will come naturally. Heck, I may even feel like cooking the nightly meals again (Steve has wrestled that one off me, nearly two years ago now, and it's become like his domain for the time being, but perhaps with a bigger yard and a huge blokey tool shed he will actually feel like getting out of the house into his expansive backyard, for until now we really haven't had anywhere to escape each other on our current turf).
It's all good!
*please do NOT let me go there, I don't want to box myself in, there will be no baking of cookies from scratch on cookie sheets for this lame-o domestic godess. Pull my head in if I even look like suggesting I make my own gingerbread cookies in the shape of Christmas trees, dusted with icing sugar to look like "snow".... please, I beg of you, save me from that.
