Back in the age of JD there was no such thing as moving for a guy. I spent three years of college in an on-again-off-again relationship with a guy convinced he would be moving from Denver to a bigger city that offered a bigger city sort of life. San Diego. Las Vegas. And that was fine with me, I just wasn’t going to go with him. I was confident in the possibility of a functional long distance relationship and comfortable in the concept of things happening for a reason. I wasn’t scared of moving; as an Army brat I had been everywhere and anywhere and had to pick up and start over smack in the middle of high school. Basically, I wanted to pursue my own future in my own way and not make compromises for a guy.
One fiery first kiss later, Jennifer boxed up her diploma, meager collection of life tangibles, six-month old pup and hit the road for Northwest Kansas. It would be my third address in fifteen months, having graduated in Colorado and then moved to Mom and Dad’s in North Carolina licking wounds from the previously mentioned fellow. I happily chased the sun across the country from civilization to the middle of nowhere for THE guy. Over eight years our game of chase has taken us from the Great Plains back to Colorado and now to New England where Live Free or Die is the motto for the present.
My Muffin loves three things in this world: his family, America, and baseball and not always in that order. Serving those passions has taken him around the world and provided me the comfort necessary to stay home with our brood of bubbly, blond-haired girls and aging four-pawed fur-sons. He is ridiculously fun, smart, intense, and the only guy I have ever trusted explicitly. So I pack up our things every few years and start new with a clean slate. But children need routine and function to thrive, so with Daddy traveling so much to provide, my blood now runs granite. No matter where we end up I become the rock everyone comes home to.
The nomadic lifestyle means no Grandma to take the kids for the night or Grandpa to steal them away for ice cream. When it comes to playing pretend and teaching ABC’s I am a gold star over-achiever. But I take little satisfaction in the drudgery of dishes and laundry and cleaning. Domestic life creates a Groundhog Day suck spiral and there are many days when I am toppled. We have been here for over two years now and have finally built a stable network of reliable friends and planned outings help to break up the days, but the loneliness still sets in. There are times when my mind begs for something else to do, to have someone else to talk to but a three-year old and gummy-grinned baby.
Perhaps it is no wonder that I am so thankful for the nights. With my girls tucked sweetly in their beds I can put the tantrums aside and reflect poetically on the giggles. I can finish a chore and feel some accomplishment when it stays done for more than five minutes. But what fills my cup is that when I finally lay down in bed, my Muffin is there, wanting to give up his precious limited hours of sleep to whisper sweet nothings and random thoughts. Most mornings when it starts again and I have tired eyes, it’s because of the pillow talk. How thankful I am that he still wants to talk to me after eight years. He may actually miss JD more than I do so perhaps this blog is his blog too.
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