Thursday, January 15, 2009
Ian is officially unemployed, as is almost every builder/husband I know around here.
We're a missing paycheck away from financial disaster, (I am missing one as a matter of fact) yet we're still joking and laughing each morning.
Esther's snow pants are too short and she needs a new pair. She's grown out of her ski boots. (Honestly, who can afford a lift ticket?) Our car is up for inspection (okay it's expired) and needs new shocks. We owe our accountant money. I was actually even looking into the pros and cons of dipping into my IRA savings the other day.
Yet still, we laugh.
I made the choice to give up a perfectly good, safe, sensible and secure teaching job because, mostly, I couldn't fathom having gone through all that trouble to have children then spending an inordinate amount of time taking care of other people's children while I paid someone to take care of mine. In these tight times, that decision feels frivolous. Kind of.
It's zero degrees outside. It's meant to dip well below zero tonight. The poor pony's eyelashes and whiskers are all frozen. To sit inside and look out at the brilliant blue sky and white ground, you could almost imagine you're at the beach. But you'd freeze your tits off if you tried to sunbathe out there.
Yet I'm not spending a minute of my time daydreaming of warm sunny beaches, tenured teaching jobs, or of winning the lottery.
Why? We're going to France. Yes France.
And we're going to stay a while. A long while. A year, a year and a half, maybe more.
Ian's sister has offered him a job renovating a farmhouse she owns in Burgundy. And he, we, said "yes." Yes, yes, yes.... YES! OUI!
It's a big job. The house is really run down. It's a big move. We're overwhelmed by the details. We need to rent our house, apply for Visas and British passports for the kids, refinance our house, and enroll Esther and Isla in school. Oh yea, and we need to learn French.
Well I need to learn French. Ian' already speaks it and everyone assures me the girls will be spouting French phrases in no time. I'll be the only sad sack with the crusty adult brain crying in my red wine and talking to all my Facebook friends (We better get internet access) because I can't speak the language.
Yet, still, I'm feeling remarkably giddy. One step above it all. There's nothing quite so powerful as the knowledge that your day to day life is going to take a turn to the unpredictable. The scenery is going to change, in our case drastically, the sounds, sights smells, and even the language we use to communicate with those around us will be different.
And different is good in my book.
This isn't entirely new news. We've been sitting on it for several months now, but it has recently become more real, more mind-blowingly scary/titilating than ever before.
While we don't have plane tickets in hand, we're shooting for mid March.
Foremost in my mind, other than how the heck are we going to find a good, trustworthy renter in two months, is: If French women don't get fat, do American women living in France, frequenting the Boulangerie and dipping into the Burgundy, not get fat either?
I'm still writing, but not talking about France, yet, shhhh!, over here.