DeucesJanuary 9, 2012 at 11:25 am | Posted in Family, Me, Transylvania | 19 Comments
Tags: Blogging, Challenges, Expats, Family, Life, Milestones, Motherhood, Parenting, Perspectives, Romania
Two. It’s one number. With three letters. And the most important word of 2011 for me.
I’m living two lives. One is here, in Romania, filled with things like walking to the brutărie, drying towels on the radiator, and spending Saturday mornings at the pirate-ship playground. In this life, we indulge in îngheţată and Orange Fanta. And pleasantries like mulţumesc, cu plăcere, and bună dimineaţa roll off our tongues, at last, with ease.
The other is there, in the States, filled with things like dear friends struggling to have a baby, property taxes due, and fresh tortillas any day of the week. We schedule midnight calls with our vet’s office and do Internet searches for “canine hypercalcemia” and “parathyroid tumor” while people shop at Target and routinely obey stop signs.
Here, in this life, I spent a quarter of the year on one leg. While my fractured tibia healed, I sat on the couch and watched dump trucks, taxis, horses, and the city soccer captain’s Porsche drive by. A nanny cared for the baby I couldn’t hold, feed, change, or tuck in.
In November, I tentatively put weight on my newly repaired leg. I steeled myself for that awful feeling of my body collapsing like a useless lawn chair, just as it had on a dusty Tuscan road back in August. It didn’t. It held.
Just like me.
And just like my marriage. Night after night, I unleashed a day’s worth of frustrated, angry tears on my husband after the children had finally gone to bed. Twice a week, he hauled in six bags of groceries after putting in 10 hours at the office and 2 as chef, bubble-bath-giver, story-reader, and blanket-tucker. Then he helped me into the bath and into my pajamas and into bed, just as if I were a fourth child. Too many nights, I played the part by being petulant and pouty.
But we’re through it. We’ve regained our equilibrium. We held.
Without the ability to wash laundry, prepare grilled cheeses, and mop parquet floors, I suddenly found myself with time. Two hours with Lollipop to shake sprinkles onto sugar cookies with abandon. Two hours with Giggles to glue-stick sparkly confetti onto paper plates. Two hours with Bun to put together and take apart and put together and take apart Legos.
Not long ago, I would have considered this time wasted. Wasted. When there were dishwashers to empty, couches to clean under, and photos to sort. There still are, of course. There always will be. But none of that seems quite as important, now that my children invite me to tea parties and kitchen-table art classes and pretend grocery stores, now that I say yes.
This week, I celebrate two years of blogging. It’s a pale yellow post-it tacked haphazardly on the pages and pages I’ve lived over the last 12 months. Four months preparing to move overseas. Seven months in Romania. Three months with a broken leg. Five months of physical therapy. (With more to come.)
Oh, and 341 blog posts to date.
I’ve written my way through many of motherhood’s challenges. I’ve embraced the chaos, noise, and discarded sandwich crusts that come with three children. I’ve sifted through all the rocks, crumpled-paper bits, and walnut shells in tiny pairs of blue jeans and found the silver lining.
I’ve said yes. Yes. To all of it.
What number defined your 2011? Do you mark anniversaries, or do they sneak up on you? And how long have you been blogging?