Our toilet decided, yesterday, that it was no longer going to work. It decided that, when it was flushed, it was going to flood the bathroom floor instead of doing what it was supposed to do. None of our kids are at the age of putting things in the toilet (although I’m sure Preston will be there very soon)(and hey, Brandon, Dad told me some stories of you putting your fire truck in the toilet when you were little)(three times in a row), but I thought maybe that Mouse Trap marble that Liliana swallowed on Christmas Day might have finally gone through her system and gotten stuck. I plunged, Noah plunged, still the toilet flooded.
Noah made a phone call to his parents and decided that we were going to spend the night at their place. We have only the one bathroom, and with two I-have-to-go-right-now little girls, we were not going to make it overnight without a toilet. So, we packed everyone up (goodness, five people need a lot of things for just one night) and headed to the land of working toilets.
The thing is, though, as soon as we left our house, I started to shake a bit. Part of the reason for the shaking was because my meds had run out and I didn’t realize it until Friday night (I suck at planning ahead) and the pharmacy that held my prescription refill wasn’t going to open again until Tuesday and we’d just picked up said refill a couple hours earlier and it hadn’t kicked in yet. Without those precious pills, I don’t handle anxiety well. Add withdrawal to anxiety and, well, it gets kind of messy. I had with me something to counteract the withdrawal and for super-bad anxiety, but since I have to abstain from nursing Preston for six hours after taking it, I was trying to do without.
Why the anxiety about sleeping at my in-laws’ place? It’s not because I don’t like it there. It’s because I like being home more than anywhere else. Packing up and heading somewhere else to sleep with only about a half-hour warning? Not exactly an anxiety-free thing for me. Thankfully, our most-amazing landlord (seriously. the. best.) came today and fixed our toilet and I get to spend the night in my own bed in my own house tonight.
Even medicated, though, I’d rather be home. A friend of mine comes over about once a week (or twice)(sometimes three times)(I like her) and one day she said something like she felt bad that she was always here and maybe she should have me over there. I said, nah, that’s alright. You like being out, I like being home. This works just fine.
I can’t pinpoint when this homebody thing started. I think it was about the time we moved to Saskatoon, as I don’t remember it being around before then.
I don’t get cabin fever. My best days are the ones where I don’t have to leave the house at all. Maybe it’s because I was in such a bad place when we moved here that being home feels safe for me? Or maybe it’s because I’ve spent the last year and a half either pregnant or with a nursing baby and being home is just more convenient? Or maybe it’s because I leave the house five time a day (minimum) to drop off Noah, drop off the girls, pick up Liliana, pick up Kaylie, and pick up Noah? Or maybe it’s because Preston hates his carseat and is much happier being able to roam around the house putting things in his mouth that he shouldn’t? I don’t know.
What I do know is that I am the absolute happiest when I’m at home, especially when I am home with the four other people who live here. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?
(That was a rhetorical question.)(Although you may answer, if you’d like.)