It is evening at our old table in the new house. Eden is coughing from her bed. Ben is at a work dinner. Silas is sleeping soundly. I am drinking diet root beer and eating rustic baguette with sliced tomatoes, olive oil and Parmesan cheese.
About ten minutes ago, a man who looks EXACTLY LIKE Will Farrell with a blond curly wig and a moustache just cruised by my window at about 7 mph on an old loud motor bike. He was standing up coasting down the hill the way kids do on bicycles. Just now he came by again, this time up the hill, doing a solid wheelie the whole way. Who IS this man and why oh why is Ben not here to witness him??
Today, on the heels of our Saturday move-in and Sunday baby shower that made this babe's September arrival feel more true and imminent, I find myself souping through transition again. Being in our own house here (which so far feels like a three day game of house sitting with all of our California furniture) hurls us back into redefinition. This gesture of permanence -- a house -- seems to create another film of distance between this and our California life, or maybe it just highlights all that is still nascent in our lives here.
We are, indeed, in a time of between. It's pregnancy, an expecting, a waiting for home to be born.