I am waiting on the youngest to give me the date of his last exam, at which time I will hire a truck to move the last of our stuff to our Maine house. It’s been a long slog and one I haven’t enjoyed that much.
When the going gets tough, I make lists. When the going gets really tough, I avoid them; they are overwhelming. I’m at the point where a list is feasible, however, and it was on my schedule yesterday. However, a car accident hijacked my day. When one has two weeks and two days to finish a massive project, that hurts. And now I’m wheel-less, which hurts even more.
Most of the time, I keep my nose firmly on the grindstone and don’t look up. My focus is very narrow: I have to get these vents swapped out or that window-frame primed and painted. The other evening I decided to take a few moments to walk around and really look at this place. It looks pretty darn good, if I may say so myself.
I hate the weeks ahead of a tight deadline, even when I’m on track. They’re fraught with anxiety and tinged with longing to be done. I can’t even think about Christmas, I’m so anxious to be back in my home with my family.