In eight days Husbandito, The Juggernaut, Liz Lemon, and I are moving to a new house. My MIL’s guest house, to be exact, so we’re going to have a family compound. Like the Kennedy family, except Jew-ish and not corrupt. It will be a reprieve of sorts – a chance for me to live in a home not infested with toxic mold that keeps making me more and more ill as days go by. There’s a fantastic park down the street and a huge yard for a boy and his dog to play in for hours. It’s all good stuff.
So why do I feel so bad?
For starters, I feel as though I have failed my family. I am the breadwinner while Husbandito finishes school and because I have been so damn sick, I have been unable to work consistently. I have a few good days and then I’m down for the count. It doesn’t really bode well with employers.
I also feel bad because this place is the home the three of us cultivated together. My son had a lot of his firsts here – first steps, first solid food, first accident that resulted in an ambulance ride during rush hour – you know, all the usual stuff.
There is some mourning that is taking place and I guess the most important thing is that I honor it and move on. My home is wherever my family is and that’s all that matters. They are my heart and my world.
However, I really wish one of them would stop peeing on the rug.