Since I’ve been blogging publicly, there have been a few instances in which I’ve discussed the need to put on my figurative Big Girl Panties. The issues have been mostly minor, and I somehow managed to pull through.

But those big girl panties turned out to be merely Pull Ups.

I now need to put on some real ones.

Historically, there’s been a lot of swearing in this house. I’m not saying we’re a family of sailors, but my grandfather did have an anchor tattoo. I inherited this colorful language from my mother unit, who, I believe, inherited it from her mother unit, who humbly began the tradition by stringing saints’ names in a long, breathless, Italian row.

Now, there’s no swearing at people in this house, per se. Most of it appears in casual conversation, or in routine discussions about work or family. And we’ve had these conversations in the presence of the kids. But, up until, I’d say, the past week, no one’s noticed.

I had to put my daughter in Time Out last week, which resulted in her running around her room yelling, “Aagh! Facky! Facky! No! Facky!”

Oops.

Seems she was listening after all. And has also been able to successfully incorporate a few new words into casual conversation.

Fantastic.

Those conversations have now met an unfortunate end. Or should.

In addition, we recently found out that my husband has been offered, and accepted, a better job in a neighboring state, which would require a move.

Facky.

So, not only are we trying to hold it together verbally (I’m thinking swear jar) , I’m trying to hold it together mentally as well.

Remember about a year and a half ago, when we were facing moving out of state? The kids were really small, we had help basically seven days a week, and there was probably a lot of swearing, but I don’t remember, because I never slept. Well, he was presented with that same job – one I knew he wanted, one he wouldn’t be able to find in this state – again. So we said yes.

You can read my hilarious, yet pathetic, musings on my failure to launch last time here.

Of course, now that he’s accepted the job and reality is smugly staring me in the face, chewing with its mouth open, I’m starting to like this house. I like the yard. I like the various blooming plants I’m unable to identify because I’m from the city. I like the floors we put in, the toilet we replaced, and the basin sink in the laundry room that drips constantly. I like holly bushes that bent to the ground with the snow. I like the kids next door who take my kids skateboarding on their stomachs down their driveway. I like our new fridge. I like everything.

My husband continues to remind me that this house has been a source of negativity and stress since the day we closed, and is bleeding us dry. Which it is. And he keeps reminding me that he won’t find an opportunity like this in Rhode Island. Which he won’t. And he keeps reminding me that for the six weeks he was interviewing, I was one hundred percent on board with this plan. Which I was.

But, the yard is just – so pretty…

I guess a particular measure of panic comes with rose-colored glasses.

What I think I can do is work through the mental gymnastics and everything tangible it will take to get this done. What I’m having trouble doing is stifling the frequent and substantial expressions of emotion that accompany the process.

When the kids are all like, “Mommy, why you crying,” it’s not as if I can respond, “Well, kids, I’m crying because my family of origin did not afford me the tools I needed to believe I can handle an existence further than an arm’s length away from them. And, truth be told, I might just be a wuss.”  I shouldn’t be crying in front of my kids, period. But life for the past few years has been such a roller coaster, I have cracked a few times.

I can’t suck my thumb in the fetal position on the kitchen floor, whining about how the windows need to be washed or that the walls need touching up. Or that I’ll have to hire someone named Imelda to fill in my obvious deficiencies as a mother and a wife. Or that we might pick the wrong house. Again.

So, as I’ve clearly demonstrated, I need some good, sturdy, high-thread-count big girl panties. And your help.

If you hear me starting to flake or cleave or waffle (or the cap unscrewing from a bottle of hard liquor), please jump in and remind me that people do this every day and that this truly is the best choice for our family. 

And, please, please keep an eye on that swear jar. If there’s nothing in it, someone’s cheating.