As we mentioned in yesterday’s post, five straight weeks of being out of the hus-b’s and my home due to the remodel has been tough. While our parents have been beyond accommodating and gracious, it’s still a challenge living on someone else’s turf and being forced out of our familiar household routines. We’re used to cooking for two omnivores, shouting out the answers to “Jeopardy!” and spending a lot of time with our friends (amazingly, even obnoxious people who shout out the answers to nerdy game shows have friends). On the upside, we finally learned the answer to a question that had dogged us for quite some time: Who the heck watches “Two and a Half Men”? (Answer: my parents).
The one corner of the Earth that belongs to us *and* is still in habitable condition? Lake Tahoe, where we own a vacation home with some dear friends of ours. While we generally only have time for jaunts up to Tahoe during holidays and weekends, this was an emergency. Our first attempt was an utter failure, getting two-thirds of the way there only to be turned around due to a perfect storm of blizzard conditions and an overturned tanker truck. Dejected, we collected ourselves over dinner at Ikeda’s with similarly shut-out friends, and vowed to try again next weekend. Our second attempt seemed similarly doomed from the start, given that the primary highway to North Lake Tahoe was closed due to inclement weather when we hopped in the car. But after six hours of obsessive CalTrans alert checking, comparing workaround ideas with similarly foolhardy, powder hungry friends and ultimately caravanning through a long-cut detour, we triumphantly pulled into our snow-covered driveway. The hus-b didn’t even mind that he had to body slam his way through eight-foot high snowbanks to open the front door (in a t-shirt and topsiders, no less): we were home.
Every moment since, life has felt, well, delightfully and perfectly normal. We’ve dorked out watching The History Channel together, cooked dinner with our friends, passed a lazy afternoon watching NCAA basketball with our sister- and brother-in-law, drawn sriracha happy faces in our Fisherman’s Chowder at Sunnyside and spent an inordinate amount of time in our pajamas. This return to “normal”, our normal, has been a delicious relief, not simply because we have resumed some semblance of our independence, but because we know that this version of normal is a dead man walking.
With baby girl due to arrive this summer, our lives are about to get hit with a teeny-tiny, pink swaddled scud missile. We are delighted and grateful for the opportunity to become parents, but we are also acutely aware that parenthood means the end of “our” normal and the beginning of a new family version of normal. Does this mean that we’ll start talking about poop instead of politics, cook twenty minute meals instead of lengthy gourmet suppers and be too tired for our nightly New York Times crossword puzzles? Possibly. It’s a prospect that’s feeling more terrifying than thrilling as we approach the third trimester of pregnancy (aka, when shit starts to get real), so we suppose you can’t blame us too much for clinging to the silly little routines and schedules that, until this summer, are what makes us us.
Photo courtesy of the hus-b.