My husband calls my son to help pull the trash bins to the curb. They look so much alike. A mini version and a man version of the same person. Same skin. Same hair. Same lips.
My daughter is upstairs drawing cartoons. As her imagination takes over, I smile quietly to myself, happy that my middle schooler is content for the moment.
I walk over to the vacuum cleaner I have a habit of leaving out. I bend down, pick it up, and put it away. I hate putting away the vacuum.
As I hang the vacuum hose on the hook my husband installed to make our tiny utility closet less of a nightmare, I am hit with an overwhelming surge of gratitude. Of peace. Of love.
This family, this house, this life I am living—it is everything I never dreamed I could have. As the child of a broken home, the daughter of a dad who abandoned her, I never dreamed I could have an intact family.
Sure, it’s stressful. It’s chaotic. It’s insane most of the time. And being on lockdown has made it that much more insane. We are all shoved here, together, for weeks (months???) on end. And I’m not gonna lie, it’s been tough. There has been screaming. There have been tears. There’s so much fear and uncertainty out there, and too much togetherness in here.
But in these rare moments of domestic tranquility, I feel so lucky. I feel so lucky to even have a family to shelter-at-home with. A beautiful, crazy, messy, perfectly imperfect family. It might be crazy, but it’s mine.