When it comes to parenting, sometimes I feel like a two-year-old, standing five hours away from my parents, A’s parents, and all other free babysitters and unconditional support-givers, stomping my feet and screaming about how I want to do it myself. And then I go about doing it ALL BY MYSELF, but it’s more labor-intensive and difficult than it needs to be, and I stumble a lot, get pee on myself and get hurt a little, and get myself into some mighty uncomfortable situations, and am eventually rescued.
That said, I am still proud of my decision to stick it out down here, 300-ish miles away, doing it however I feel like doing it. I am confident I would not be the person/ parent/ wife/ sister/ daughter/ friend that I am—whether that’s good or bad—that I am had we not moved south and dug our heels in. It is difficult to stick by that decision when Birdy’s loving grandparents are visiting, but we still do it. Mostly, I think, because we don’t want to pack up all of our shit.