The moment.
Your shoulders relax. You made it. You take a deep breath and say a prayer of thankfulness for arriving at your destination mostly unscathed.
My life has been filled with these moments lately.
I hate to admit it, but I have been particularly frustrated by not having...more. I am desperate for beautiful wood floors, perfect decor dotting picturesque painted walls, and, most of all...a new car.
My silver CRV is old. The paint is faded and the rubber seals are cracked. The gas gauge doesn't work, and it clicks and squeaks at random times. When I walk out to the parking lot and see my little boxy SUV amidst a sea of shiny, shapely vehicles from this decade, I frown a little inside at embarrassment.
And then I remind myself that it is paid for. And that my high mileage Honda will run for a good year more at least. And I need to be thankful for what I have. And...I still don't care. (Just being honest!) I want a new car.
Or I did.
Until one of those moments.
After days of winter weather, I came to a renewed appreciation for my trusty CRV. This car is a beast. Stays on the road. Handles the ice and snow expertly. And I've made it to work and home every day like a pro, enjoying that deep sigh of relief each time, as my shoulders relax. Mission accomplished.
More than two and a half years ago, operation TWINS commenced. Our mission: Get twins here safely and somehow pay for them, take care of them and continue on living and loving life. Our whole world changed. My sister April moved in with us as a tenant in an effort to help alleviate some financial burden as well as provide extra hands for the unimaginably busy twinfancy stage. Many moons have passed since that summer moving day, and in one week, our renter will leave her frigid abode downstairs and pursue new career ventures in St. Louis.
Inviting someone to be a part of your inner circle, in your home, every day, for two years...it's a big decision. There have been good days and bad days during our time together. Together in our home we've seen babies born, a grandparent pass, a debilitating chronic illness, some grueling brother-sister banter, a few birthday celebrations, and most recently a fluffy new puppy spreading her cheer. But the memories of April's time here that I will treasure most are the ones that don't make the life changing moments list. I'm talking about the every day. April is truly a part of our home. She knows our routines. She knows our life. She knows our kids. And they adore her. Truly. Adore her. Toby & Gabe don't even know life without Aunt April, puppy Mela and Sadie (that is April's car in case you didn't know...hahaha).
April and I are opposites. For all the ways I am encouraging and positive, she is cynical and skeptical. I see the best. She sees the worst. It is the paradox of our relationship, with me constantly trying to help her glimpse the good, and April bearing with my eternal optimism for as long as she can stomach.
Don't be confused. April is a kind-hearted and caring person, my best friend. We enjoy shopping and chick flicks and can sit for hours chatting happily. She would do anything for the people she loves, and I (and my family) have been the recipient(s) of that devotion more times than I can count. Reflecting back at the past two years, I literally cannot fathom what we would have done if she hadn't moved in. Seriously.
But there have been many times I wonder if living with us has helped her at all? If she will leave with anything other than an appreciation for a reduced rent for a few years and some good times with my babies?
Apes and I were talking on the way home from work one day this week. I was uncharacteristically negative about a situation at Sam's school and explaining my concern. April laughed, paused, and then with a smile in her voice said, "Now you won't believe I'm about to say something positive, but..." She proceeded to give me heartfelt encouragement, mentioning all the positives that could come out of the issue we face. We laughed comfortably with each other on the phone, and I pointed out that it had only taken me two years to infect her with my positivity.
"Mission Accomplished," I said. And I meant it.
Next weekend my family of 5 will stand at the window and wave as "Ant Apel" pulls out of the driveway in a moving truck and heads on her way. The depth of our appreciation for what she has done for us cannot be communicated in words.
I know I say this often, but it's hard to believe we made it. She came. She helped. The babies aren't babies anymore, and the days are survivable. It's time.
Again, the moment.
Shoulders relaxed. Deep breath. Many prayers of gratitude for reaching this point mostly unscathed.
