It’s been six months, give a day or two, but the days are short when there are children to be loved and fed and bathed and clothed. There are translations and laundry and thank god there are friends. There are groceries. And endless errands: the bank and the post office and something to return that you know they won’t want back. There is plumbing and crazy Italian wiring. On a good day, there is a nice long run. There is rugby practice and then the game. There are grown-up parties and there are kiddie birthday parties, which means you’ll have to find, and wrap, a gift. There is the five-minute coffee which ends up being the best hour of your day. There are meetings at school, and more meetings, and calls for volunteers. There is life, however ordinary, and it is begging to be lived, and so the weeks go by in the blink of an eye, and half a year feels like nothing much at all.
So here I am, with one foot in the first six months and the toes of the other tentatively touching uncertain ground on the other side. I am close enough to see us there in the old place, all four of us around the table, so close I can almost reach out and touch us, but I am far enough away now that I can turn back around, face forward, and see that not all is lost. I am gaining something too, and it’s not just a stack of crossed-off To Do lists.
What, if nothing else, does a blurry, busy, tearful half year give you?