So it's 7:30 p.m. on Friday night and I'm settling in with a cup of tea and the instruction manual for my new dishwasher. It's a total party over here.
What it really is, I guess, is the logical end to a day that included my irrational emotional breakdown and a few minutes of nonsense crying in our bedroom closet; a chatty Sears deliveryman who apparently had nothing else to do all day but install our dishwasher and show us lots of pictures of his grandchildren; Annie hiding from me (again) at preschool pickup; Jason and I practically jumping for joy in our kitchen this afternoon, holding a hot-from-the-dishwasher plate, yelling, "It's clean! It's really clean!" The highlight of my day was a walk to the grocery store. For bread. (And possibly the croque monsieur sandwiches I made with it.)
I'm tired of the snow, the mealtime drama from Annie, the cooped-up feeling that everyone in our family has now that winter has been around for a while. It's starting to feel like Narnia over here: always winter, never Christmas.
I'm trying to bolster myself with positive thoughts about Florida (we leave February 1), but all that is leading to, so far, is some unnecessary anxiety about packing and logistics. I'm trying to keep it all in perspective, especially after reading (gulping down, more like) Kelly Corrigan's book, The Middle Place, about, you know, her courageous fight against cancer while raising two girls and helping her dad fight his own cancer battle. You'd think a book like that would make me doubly or triply thankful for my many blessings, and it did, but still my mood persists.
So I'm back to putting all my hope in the dishwasher. It's so shiny, so clean, so quiet, so efficient. It will change my life, I tell myself. It will get me through this January, and beyond.
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