It seems to me like the end of winter is a season of waiting.
I know, I know. Advent is the season of waiting and that was almost three months ago. And yet, come February, I find myself waiting, waiting, waiting, barely containing myself. Last year at this time, it was the wedding. There were suddenly very few plans to make. Decisions had been made, dresses had been bought, venues booked, vendors chosen. I was working my way through my last few courses, but mostly, I was simply waiting, so excited for that moment when M and I finally walked hand in hand down the aisle and out of the sanctuary as husband and wife.
And now, a year after that painful stretch of waiting, I’m back to it. It’s not really as painful as last year: there aren’t as many worries, not as much pressure on the end of the wait, on one day. And, as wonderful as the end of the wait will be, in truth, it will be nothing in comparison to last year’s finale.
But it’s still going to be awesome.
We’ve been making plans like crazy. Every night, one of says something like, “Hey, I’ve been thinking about the bathroom,” or, “Are you sure it’s a good idea to put a shower in instead of a tub?” or “Do you think we could rip down that wall someday?” Every day, our thoughts change: last week, we were set on a layout change, moving the bathroom to behind the kitchen and creating an open-concept flow. This week, we’re wondering if we’ll get a better return on our investment if we work with what we have and just make it amazing. Next week we’ll probably start planning to add a whole second floor or a huge addition out the back. We’ve got dozens of scribbled floor plans and a few well thought out and carefully scaled versions. And I’m starting to lose track of the number of trips we’ve taken to Ikea.
Waiting is important; I know that. If only it were slightly easier.