gently prying the fingers off my psyche

My life, in boxes. Here my entire love of sewing is represented, compartmentalized. Two of my sewing machines await Moving Day, on the top of my other (main love) machine (tucked away in cabinet).

We moved into this house five-plus years ago. One of the first things we did – I massively pregnant – was to repaint the room for our baby on the way. A couple months ago for the first time we changed the purpose of the room – from my children’s bedroom (Nels had arrived in 2004) – to my sewing room. Today I swept cobwebs out for the last time; took down my homesewn curtains. Tried to feel a “fuck yes!” instead of sadness. Our first home as a family.

Ralph, gleefully removing the expensive, low-energy compact bulbs to take with us, while replacing them with cheap ones. My husband is very sweet. He moves about two-hundred percent of my speed. He accepts that for me, packing one box is emotionally draining. He says things like, “That’s a very good idea!” at any suggestion I have. He gets on chairs to change bulbs and I take a picture of his ass, which I think you’ll agree is most excellent.

After today’s work, the good news: 1 out of 3 of our bedrooms is entirely clean, entirely packed, ready to go. The bad news: I will be having minor panic attacks as I drift in that purgatory for nesters – unable yet to make a new home, dismantling the old.

Nels, on the kitchen counter as Ralph cooks breakfast (photograph by Sophie). He likes robots. He likes bacon and eggs even more. He waits patiently for them.

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