The good news is that we no longer have to move so quickly. The union my Hubby now belongs to revised their requirements for residency, so we no longer have an "end date" by which we have to move.But we're ready. Ready to start the "fun part" - ready to be on to the next headache, the next stress. Ready to stop worrying about this house and start looking at new ones already.
I'm finding it hard to keep myself motivated. As soon as I have one project done, another jumps in its place, shouting, "ME NEXT! ME NEXT!"
Shut up, project.
So I take advantage of motivation whenever it strikes. This past Thursday afternoon I came home from work. (Translation: I had been out of the house, no one shouting "MOOOM!" at for more than eight hours. You can get drunk off that sort of respite.)
"Hey Nick! Wanna help Momma paint?"
He'd been begging for weeks to be allowed to paint something. Half of the porch floor needed painting, and I thought, "Eh...simple enough, right?"
Honestly? He was pretty damn good about it!
I gave him the roller loaded with paint and he rolled away happily (mostly in the same spot over and over again) while I cut in around the edges. That being done, I'd drew a little square for him.
"Here - you fill in that square for Momma."
And he did.
We worked this way until a good portion of the floor was covered. Every so often I'd stop, load up the roller with more paint and draw another square. The space was narrow so I was very specific about where he should stand and in which direction he should "roll".
He didn't care. He was happy to be helping and he was doing a really good job. His squares needed to be touched up a bit in the end, but he was listening well and we were talking about the letter of the week at preschool.
Now, I must tell you that before starting this project I told him that if he got paint on hands he couldn't cry. I told him it'd wash off, it was part of being a painter.
When he first rolled paint over his toes (and hand-me-down play shoes) he didn't freak out. Just, "Uh oh, Mom! Paint! On my toes!"
Oh thank God. I was beginning to worry about his boy-ness.
The second time? He laughed.
I was happy to see paint on his hands and that he paid no attention to it.
Finally, we got to the section just in front of the door, and he started yelling for his Daddy to "Come see! Come see!" I told him to finish up his square, and that I'd go get Daddy.
We almost peed ourselves laughing when we came back out to this:
Is that bad?