Friday, April 12, 2013

A lot changes, a lot stays the same.

Good Lord it feels like it's been a million years since I last blogged. The initial whirlwind of parenting multiples is finally slowing down a bit. My two are now over two (can you even believe that?!) and keep me running from morning to night, but luckily they're allowing me some blog time today.

So much has been happening here. You may remember me mentioning that Hubs got laid off last August ('12) from a company he was with (and loved) for nearly ten years. It came as a shock and we both job searched for over five months before he landed a new role in a different state, so we are now mid-move, having packed up our life into the back of the family van, and moved to a rental until we can sell our house.

This, of course, brought a lot of mixed emotions on the Peyton front, with her hill being mere minutes from our old house. I don't know, long term, how that will make me feel to be several hours from her grave, but for now I am somewhat okay with it--because I just got to visit her there last week, and will be home nearly weekly for the foreseeable future until we get the house sold.

Leaving our house, on the other hand, was a no-brainer for me. Our beautiful yellow and white colonial that I so loved upon purchase, has been an unhappy place for me these last several years. I cried more tears in that house than I could ever count, and I'd be lying if I said that moving from there is anything other than liberating (though it is very stressful not knowing when/if our house will sell.) It may sound silly to hate an inanimate object, but I truly do hate that house.

It had represented so many things to the newlywed me, that just didn't come to be with Peyton, and while we had so many happy memories there with The Snowflakes, they couldn't dull the pain of all of the memories spent grieving there. I died in that house, or at least the carefree me died there.

Beautiful as it is, with it's daffodils and bay window, that house will always be the place that Peyton never came home to. Even now, four and a half years later, we still refer to the little yellow room with the green carpet as Peyton's room, despite that fact that her decorations are long gone, and the furniture was passed down to her siblings well over a year ago.

The kids are doing well. Really well. Bubba is still incredibly allergic to milk, but other than that, he's bright and funny and eager to learn, and honestly the boy just makes my heart sing.

Squeaks, ironically, has become the more physical/less verbal of the two, though she still Squeaks with the best of them at 72,000 decibels when excited, so we will keep the name going here for blogging purposes.

They are joyful and hard work and in the momma department they keep me very happy, though I must admit that personally I've been in a real funk lately. I don't know if it is the constant running around after them, the years of sleeplessness, the aging that grief has done to me, the reminders that PTSD bring, the stressing and worrying and hyper-vigilance of parenting after loss, the financial stress we have been under, moving, or a combination of it all, but I feel like shit and it shows. 

I am 33 but I feel simply ancient and look even worse and just wish there was some great rewind or delete button that would help me feel something other than worn out by life all the time. 

I envision myself doing something freeing and just for me, like going for a run (which is a funny fantasy since I hate to run), but the reality is that we are in a new town therefore have no one to watch the kiddos, and I don't get five seconds of daylight without one or the both of them (who absolutely refuse to sit in a stroller now) attached to me, so for the time being at least, that's sort of out of the question.

Anyway, that's where we are at for now.