I have the movement fever. (Not baby or Bieber fever.) It’s burning me up inside. It’s been building and building and I was so sleep deprived I didn’t notice it. But it’s back. Oh how I wish that I could be happy to settle down in one place. I wish that my internal struggle with here or there would just…stop. I am envious of those who don’t have the struggle. I wish I could turn it off and white picket fence it. Back and forth and back and forth we go.
Sometimes we talk about mortgages and home ownership. We look at houses and loans and discuss how it would be. We make plans, actual plans. But then the little wormy of doubt squirrels in and takes hold. For me, it’s this sort of revulsion to what I see as being trapped. I can’t deal with it. It sits in my stomach and pushes at my edges, making me realise I can’t do it.
Spouse and I discuss our options over and over again. We both need to travel. . Addison will have travelled to the other side of the world by the time she is 2. I imagine her pulling along a little suitcase with a beret. Like a wee Madeline. We are not smarmy jet setters, we just have to move.
Movement is life
I would never begrudge anyone the option of anything. But I hide my feelings because it’s not what I, at 32 and with a child, am supposed to want. I am supposed to want a house and a garden. But deep down inside, I don’t. There are others like me and I can talk freely about this to them without being snarled and smirked at. Perhaps it’s called flighty or indecisive or fickle. Nah, it’s just me. The fever is made worse by keeping silent, by hating myself for it. The antidote is to give it airtime. It’s the realisation that we are all on different paths and that I can’t follow yours, as much as you can’t follow mine.
Maybe one day I will want that white picket fence. Maybe I never will. So for 6 months we wait. We focus on living for now and see where we are then. We keep at it, we don’t settle. Because movement is life.