Momma is still down, (see post below) which means instead of reading and writing with third graders all day I am home, on the couch, binge watching season one of Parenthood. And contemplating this life of ours.
His + Mine = Ours
And then I look around me and I see the physical signs of His + Mine = Ours. It's all around me. Take the living room, where I am still binge watching Parenthood.
Coffee table, end table, piano...mine, mine, and mine
Score one for OURS!
The same inventory could be taken in all the other rooms of this house...
Two ceiling fans, a chandelier, a small smattering of photographs, and a piece or two of artwork we have picked up along the way, and a great dining room table and chairs that we scored at the Habitat ReStore...Those are "ours."
Everything else can be categorized under "his" or mine."
Usually all of this stuff doesn't rattle around in my pea brain. But Sunday afternoon my brain got rattled.
I had a husband in bed with a high fever (103.7° at its highest) and two stepdaughters who needed to go back to their mom's after their weekend here. I was going to take them home but their mom came to get them instead.
Simple enough, right?
I'll set the scene that made the rattles start.
Dog barks and runs for the door.
Cats both meow...one gallops up the stairs to observe from the safety of the top step while the other sees this as his opportunity for freedom.
There's a pee pad inside the front door...thanks to the prednisone-taking dog.
And a pile of jackets precariously balanced on the banister that choose that instant to Avalanche to the floor.
I scoop up the black cat, block the dog with my foot so she can't make a run for her own freedom, and attempt to rebalance the heap of jackets on the banister, all while opening the door.
(Quick his/mine aside for those who don't know...the dog, AKA Cookie...his. The cats...Screamer who is struggling to escape the confines of my arms and Hannah who is at the top of the stairs...mine.)
Cookie manages to scoot around my foot and head out the door to greet M&M's mom...and as I listen...it smacks me in the face...her mom, too.
I watched this brief scene unfold as the girls gathered up their overnight bags, backpacks, and pillows...does Cookie remember her? Does Cookie feel divided loyalties between us? Is it confusing for her to have us both standing here, one on either side of the threshold? Shoot...she probably likes her more than me right now anyway, given all the vet visits I've taken her to recently.
And then, Cookie was turned around and scooted back in the door, goodbyes were said, and the door was closed.
And I was jealous. Jealous of what is "his." Of what isn't "mine." Of what isn't "ours."
That's the reality we live in, this messy, mixed up, blended life we are weaving, one day at a time. One piece of furniture or artwork, or gallon of paint at a time.