I would tell you I looked at two apartments today, and both left me feeling like Goldilocks: one was too big (in price and space—the ceilings were loft-height, glorious Old Chicago 12-footers. In winter, I fear the heat would never reach me or my children in our beds. We’d swelter in summer. The place felt like a warehouse, and something in my stomach told me The Youngest One would feel swallowed by it) and the other—a two bedroom unit with shiny blue laminate flooring and a kind-faced landlord living below—was far too small. Nothing “just right” yet.
I would tell you I went on the podcast, the one I was supposed to do last Sunday but was postponed, and it flowed smoothly. I would send you the link so you could hear me do something I’m good at.
I’d tell you about walking in wind so wicked it felt like a fairy tale. About the two people I gave money to despite my current situation and why. I’d tell you about the dog I met and how I let her set the boundaries between us because I was visiting HER house and wanted her to know I understood it, and how it felt like the easiest communication I’ve had since you left.
I’ve been praying every day. That’s what I would tell you.