When we finally moved out of my mother-in-law's house a few weeks ago after sharing her space for four and a half years, I thought that I would be over-the-moon excited. Previously I had entertained visions of putting together my own place, a joyful smile on my face as I opened boxes that hadn't seen the light of day in nearly five years. I would be so happy as I put things in their rightful place, purchased those things that didn't make the cut to be stored all those years ago, and finally set up house again on my own. The euphoria of finally having a home to make as per my personally applied label of "homemaker" would surely be enough to motivate me to get everything unpacked and clean within the first few weeks in our newly rented home.
The reality has, of course, fallen somewhat short of the dream. Two and a half weeks after moving, my garage is still filled with boxes, things are strewn, unpacked though not put away, throughout my home, and all motivation for rectifying the situation has abandoned me. My couches seduce me with whispered promises of comfort and naps, the internet beckons, and the muted pleas of the boxed items are easily drowned out by the calls of the new flat screen tv. Perhaps one of the great things about finally being on our own is not having to unpack and clean up on someone else's schedule, having no one to throw unhappy glances in my direction when I choose to spend my evening reclining on the couch rather than folding endless loads of laundry. Maybe I need to indulge in the freedom of this for just one more evening before throwing myself back into it like a two dollar hooker. At least if I am wrong, there is no one here to tell me.