Without a doubt, one of the hardest times of my life was when my mother was dying in the hospital. Knowing her time was limited and having all these things I wanted to say to her but couldn’t, because she simply could not comprehend, was agonizing. It drained me; in the evenings, after a day at her bedside, I would walk back to the apartment Dave and I shared, ironically a stone’s throw from the hospital, to sit on the couch and just stare.
If any of you are planning on selling your house or are in the process of selling your house, get yourselves a statue of St. Joseph the Worker, pronto.
Twenty-four hours after we said the prayer and put the statue on our mantle, we got an offer. A good offer. It’s just the offer we’d been hoping for, and if all goes well over the next few days, our house will be officially sold next week. BOOYA!
Saturday Night at the Italian Hall ’07 was not nearly as interesting as the ’06 version. I didn’t limp to the Hall doors battered and bleeding, as Dave thoughtfully took my arm while we walked there (and I held on for dear life). Unlike last year, this time around Dave did manage to maintain conversation with me while he tried to “fix” his father’s cell phone. He didn’t try to dump the leftover gnocchi into a Ziploc freezer bag under the table and not once did he blame his own noxious gas on the guy sitting at the table next to us.
Thing Number One
It’s that time of year again…it’s Gnocchi Night at the Italian Hall. Every year, a handful of Nonnas get together and make sweet, sweet gnocchi’s with their beautiful Italian gnocchi-making hands. They make hundreds upon hundreds of them, and folks buy tickets and paint their faces real pretty, puff their hair up special and get dressed to the nines to gather at the Italian Hall for a sit-down gnocchi feast. It’s a big deal in Dave’s family; we’ve gone almost every year since I’ve known him.
By the time four p.m. rolls around, I am usually hanging on by a wing and a prayer over here – something my children can keenly sense. Knowing full-well that Mummy is rapidly making her downward descent, they either turn into animals or emotional basket cases, depending on if they have napped that day and if so, for how long. It’s my least favourite time of the day; I feel my energy, patience and wherewithal quickly draining from my body (and mind) and I cling to the knowledge that soon, my husband will be home. Soon, I won’t be the only one who is having the stamina sucked out of them by two small children.
My husband is one of the pickiest adult eaters I have ever met. The list of things he doesn’t eat is longer than the list of things he does and there are many foods that he refuses to touch despite the fact that they have never passed his lips before, ever.
All of the cleaning and scrubbing and furniture moving and working like crazy to make this place look decent on top of parenting two children and cooking and laundry and errand running caught up with me yesterday, slamming into me full-force like a Mac truck.
You know those times when you figure something out, or when something suddenly makes sense to you, or you realize that something is actually this when all this time you’ve thought it was that? And when it hits you, you’re all, A-ha! It all makes sense now!
I have done so much cleaning this week my legs are permanently shaky. My hands are dry and chapped from cleaning products and rubber gloves and I’ve given up on wearing perfume because the odour radiating from my pores is a mixture of Lysol and bleach. Hug me and I’ll disinfect you.