Trailer Wife

Sigh. I preface almost everything I do these days with a sigh. It's very sigh-y time of year. The leaves are gone, it was 10 degrees when I got in the car to go to the gym this morning, and sunset will arrive seven minutes earlier today than it did yesterday. Smith Lake froze completely solid over the weekend, where Gus had his first on ice experience. It's a shallow lake, so you can see the pebbly floor and spiky plant life through the foot or so of clear ice. It caught everything in stasis--twigs half in and half out of the water, reeds swaying in stillness, bubbles frozen on their way to the surface. It was quite beautiful. And a little bit eerie.

Because that's how I've felt the last couple of years - in quiet suspension. Or more to the point, in a state of perpetual anticipation. Waiting to go to Scotland, waiting for pregnancy to be over, waiting for Sam to get a job, waiting to come home... and of course the problem with waiting is that the distraction of waiting keeps you from getting anything else done. So here I am, waiting, again, for graduate school to start in the fall, waiting to get my life restarted. For a person somewhat lacking in patience, I'm finding it a bit difficult to get over myself.

I think I've reached that point in my life when, suddenly, not everything is possible anymore. There are many things that, no matter how badly I want them or how hard I'm willing to work, aren't available to me. I've had a twisty path toward adulthood anyway, so these little delays and detours drive me absolutely ape shit with frustration. A good example: on Saturday, Sam stayed home with Gus so that I could take a few hours and go to a bookstore. I decided to go to Barnes and Noble to get a new moleskin (instant happiness). I sat in the car for 10 minutes to let it warm up, drove for 15 minutes, and strolled around for 20 before taking my purchase to the checkstand... where I realized I had forgotten my wallet at home. That feeling of utter aggravation, as if the entire universe is conspiring against me, swept over me in a wave of four letter words. I feel sorry for the clerk. I went back to my car, let it warm up, drove home.

And as I walked in the door, earlier than expected, Gus was sitting among a thousand shredded copies of my New Yorkers, happily eating expensive watch ads, and he looked up at me with this devilish little grin and says, Momm-meee! Thank goodness for toddlers who remind you to live in the moment.