As I was laying in bed last night, uncomfortably flopping extremely unceremoniously, and certainly lacking any amount of grace, from my left side (which comes highly reccommended from the OB) to my less desirable, but infinitely more comfortable right side - this is hard.
The same thought occured to me again this morning, as I was scrubbing the floor of the bathroom. The floor, which is now sporting a scary, yet easy covered crack in the tile floor. A crack which is snaking its way from the heater to under the bathtub. A quick several thumps down the stairs (again, lacking any amount of grace) and a few short steps into the laundry room, revealed the ceiling of the laundry room, which happens to be the floor of the bathroom, also has a matching crack. Except, the crack from above shows the true extent of the damage - waterlogged wood that has buckled and splintered. I kneeled precariously on top of the washing machine, my center of gravity lost somewhere in the last few weeks, my face inches from what I can only assume is asbestos insulation as I inspected said crack. The bathroom is going to take so much more than the pint of spackle and 4 layers of paint that I had slabbed on it this weekend. The tub and floor needs to come out, and new subfloor needs to be put down. This is going to be hard.
All my life, I longed to be older, to be more mature, to be trusted more, to JUST DO IT MYSELF.
As a child I pushed around a pink plastic stroller with my blonde haired cabbage patch inside, equipped with a bag filled with cabbage patch diapers, and bottles whose liquid disappeared when you turned them upside down.
In middle school, I stashed my covergirl makeup in the small pocket of my backpack, and would slip into the bathroom before homeroom to lavishly apply the wrong color powder. The wrong color, because I bought it because of the color of the outside of the compact, and not the actual make up inside. This, of course, was followed by a hefty amount of lipsmackers lipgloss and an overzealous spray of Electric Youth perfume.
As a teenager in high school, I had a fake ID. A Miss Kayla Johnson, who was significantly older than my actual self could strut herself into any casino, any tattoo parlor, any piercing shop, and bar and any club she damn well pleased. And she did damn well please.
In college, I thought I was at the pinnacle of being on my own. In my own place (that my parents paid for) with my own boyfriend, driving my own car (that was paid for out of a trust fund), and living my own life (one that remarkably mirrored that of my sorority sisters').
But now, we really are on our own. My own boyfriend has become my own husband. We have our own house, that we foot the bill for; we have our own car, which needs its very own set of new brakes; we have our own baby on the way, which we have no idea what to do with her once she gets here; We have our own life. Our own consequences of choices we've made. Our own thoughts, and ideas, bank accounts and backyard. And it's really, really hard.