Did you know that I live in a trailer? I'm sure you did, but did you know that these particular brand of FEMA inspired mobile homes are brown, like, everywhere. Brown paneled walls, light brown carpet, brown/white linoleum. And this isn't a nice cocoa deep chocolaty velvety brown, it's poop brown. Oh well, at least it is warm and dry and we each have our own bed (when they STAY in their own beds which is about 1/2 of the time). At home I have a queen sized bed, but now I am sleeping in a double and then the dog jumps up and then a child (usually the big one) climbs in and before you know it I am hanging off the edge and heading to the couch that I have covered with a sheet (because you know, it's not my couch so ewww). But our real house is moving along splendidly and now contains all of its required walls and ceilings. We even have electricity back to 100% of the house, along with 100% working heat. If only the damn insurance company would send that check things could really move along and I may come back from St. Thomas next week to see vast changes. At this rate everything will be in a holding pattern while I am gone and I will come home to the house in the same state it was in when I left.
The kids seem excited about living in the trailer in the yard, and to my amazement never seem to have the urge to go inside the house, even though it is a mere yards away. I guess they don't see the point. There is nothing in there they need, since I have spent hours ferrying countless items, from markers to action figures, to Baby Alive's pack of diapers which was wedged under a piece of furniture in Jack's room, out of the unorganized chaos for them. It seems as if every day there is something else I realize we must have from inside to survive, such as lamps and nice smelling candles. At this rate we may require a moving company when we are able to take up residence in what we call the "main" house. Jack and Abbey seemed at first to think it was a great adventure, a vacation of a sort. Then school started, bedtimes became enforced and it quickly just turned into the "place where we now live". There is a time-out spot there, baths to be taken, veggies to be eaten. Even though I could knock on the paneled wall from the couch and hit Jack in the head he still insists I sit in the hall like at home and read a book while they drift into la la land. I should just refuse, but I haven't had the energy. Unfortunately I think they know that I am pretty much willing to do anything by 8:30 pm to get them to sleep so I can lay on the sheet-covered couch and just veg, cuz you know somethin', trailer livin' is exhaustin'.