Yak spit and moving

At some point this morning, between pouring meds down a half-sleeping child’s throat and inhaling my first cup of coffee, I realized that I’d rather drink a bucket of warm yak spit than return to Denver this afternoon. I’m sure that would then require a rigorous regiment of heavy-duty antibiotics, but I’d take that chance.

Nothing against my friends, neighbors, and colleagues in the fine Centennial state, I just want to stay here in Chicago. I’m not terribly keen on returning to the “single mom trying to stage and sell a house” life.

Tom and I went community searching/house hunting this weekend. Found the community for us, and the house that would work so well for our family. Not the Perfect Pottery Barn house. No, not that one, the one that had me wanting to strip naked and mark the territory as mine. No house should be that perfectly perfect and leave us panting. It was also slightly above our price range and we’re not too keen to be house poor. It was the other house, the one with a huge yard and possibilities and a great price and a great school district. The one we would have put an offer on had ours been under contract.

On Thursday we’ll welcome my new nephew. My sister in law is having a medically necessary c section, and a sweet little boy will join this crazy family of ours. Thursday is also A’s birthday. A’s 10th birthday. So in two days I won’t be snuggling a newborn, but snuggling a tween, and trying to be joyful celebrating a milestone birthday without Tom.

This afternoon is a return to reality. Keeping it together. Hanging in there. Knowing that someone, somewhere, will eventually buy our house and we can haul ass east and reunite our family.

I would just rather drink that bucket of warm yak spit than have to wait any longer.