This weekend was about waiting. I waited for the last load of laundry to finish, for Mister to come home from work, and for the realtor to do a walk through of the little house. I held my breath and hoped that she would like it, and melt away our anxiety around price and procedure.

I hopped out and bought some organic dark chocolate to snack on between open houses. We donated food to the humane society and did a puppy tour- I somehow managed to get out the door before I was overcome and had to buy her while Mister wasn’t looking. We agreed we have to wait until we have a bigger place. I spent just enough (ie- too much) on ribbon and jewellery making supplies at the store, and looked forward to next week when my assignments are finished so I can work on projects and listen podcasts while the snow falls and the roads get bad.

I made amazing, simple Mexican food and somehow managed to become thoroughly annoyed that my back piece isn’t about five times larger than it is, and resolved to call my tattoo artist to talk about getting it finished this spring. I stayed up late on skype with one of my best and oldest’s, dying laughing over his stories and feeling beyond thankful for his insight and cutting sense of humour. Mister listened to us giggle and chatter, shouting comments in from the other room, like our friend had come over for drinks instead of being beamed in from on the west coast. We planned the week he’ll be home this summer so we can sneak into the night to smoke cigarettes and talk like we used to. I felt incredibly known.

I waited for the roads to clear, for the beer to chill, for the carrots I popped in brine to pickle. I waited for us to finish Fringe on the PVR so I could have nightmares for a week or so, and then be off the hook until April. I waited for my fingers to learn new knitting moves, for Mister to look up so I could kiss him, and for news of my sister away in the south of France.

I used to spend so much time waiting for things to happen that I would forget that the in between is where life is. It’s where kitchen dancing happens, and where the puppies learn to beg for popsicles. It’s where we mull, wonder, decide and reconsider. I used to think that when I hit my twenties and moved out, that’s where life would start. But it never stopped feeling like I’m holding my breath for the next big thing, even when I don’t know what that is.

So if everything is the mean time, I’m learning to love the waiting and I’m thankful for all the kitchen dancing.