At 2 am this morning, I had this brilliant idea and opening paragraph of a new post (the wee lad was awake and screaming due to some sort of tummy trouble). In the light of day and under the haze of little sleep, I don't have a clue as to what it was going to be about. But I'm pretty sure it would've been deep, awe-inspiring, witty and humble. You know, the usual.
We're ten days in now, only a handful of which we've managed to eat regular meals, and even fewer where we went to bed and woke up at proper intervals. And after months of telling our friends "It never snows in Ireland," we're on day two of occasional - blink and you miss it, so light you almost have to wish it to see it - snow.
And as I put the period on that sentence, it picked right back up again, showing me how little I know about the weather, about Ireland, about God.
I stood in the woodchips of the playground, feeling those tiny white dippin' dots hit my face and crunch under my feet, the wind so fast and hard by the sea, and we all laughed. Only in Ireland would this be walking, playing, sightseeing weather. A month ago we would barely dare to brave the walk from our parked car in a suburban Target parking lot.
But things are different here.
I could hide under the duvet in this holiday flat and wish away all the changes we face, the decisions we must make, the phone calls and emails we have to pursue to start again, again. In fact, maybe I did that for a day. It can be overwhelming, how long it takes to jump through the beaurocratic hoops of car insurance and visas and landlord references.
But we've had a bit of practice with the waiting. And I've learned one can only hide for so long.
So I start the kettle and fill cereal bowls. We find scarfs and mittens and double up on layers. We face the stinging sea and we laugh... and sometimes, we cry.
And we build a life again... again. We build a home.
Have you hid under the covers recently?