I don’t know if my life is fraying or I’m weaving seventy-three new threads into the edges.
My little boy, SBJ, has slept overnight at sixteen different addresses in his eight months on the outside. When he was ten weeks old, we put everything but a carload of stuff in storage, and we haven’t had a permanent home since.
It wasn’t in the birthplan, but postnatal depression also became part of our family landscape. It’s been a disorienting, dislocating experience.
The kindness, the hospitality of friends and family has given us an unplanned sabbatical from recognisable life while we get to know SBJ, figure out life as a family of three, and deal with depression as a gift, or intruder, depending on how spiritually mature we’re feeling on the day.
The last three months we’ve been in the UK with my husband’s family, leading a pretty quiet ruralish life, which has left some room for thinking and reading.
I’ve read most of the internet.
One of the reasons I’m now writing here, after years of thinking about blogging, is the need to turn the fraying into weaving. I want to start some integration and reintegration, as I welcome my long-lost brainpower home, finally.
It’s still on the horizon, limping slowly, but it’s in sight. I’ll be killing the fatted (and proverbial, so still ok for vegans, right?) calf any month now.
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