If I were a good enough writer, I would be able to transmit to you, through your eyes absorbing each word into your brain, what a hectic yet wonderful mess the last three months of my life have been. And then, when I was finished about the last three months, I would go into the three months before that, the not-so-wonderful ones, talking about moving internationally and squeezing all that you've ever owned in your entire life into four regular sized suitcases and one carry-on (the other carry-on being my husbands guitar, stuffed in every crack and crevice with t-shirts and anything heavy that would cost us our unborn child if it were weighed in our checked bags).
I would tell you about the enormous amount of work that goes into transitioning back in to life in the United States, about the terror that is the DMV, and I would warn through my detailed account that if ANYONE is considering leaving ANYTHING in their will through an executor, to please, in the name of all that is good, just NAME THE FRIGGIN PERSON YOU WANT IT TO GO TO, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, so your exhausted granddaughter doesn't have to make a gazillion trips to the DMV to try and buy your car from your estate once you're dead and gone.
I would also tell you about living with relatives for three months, in their living room. I would go on and on about being so desperate for some four walls of your own that your husband constructs a makeshift wall out of cardboard and duct tape, and the rejoicing that commenced for the next week over it's arrival until it came crashing back down again like a heap of, well, cardboard.
I'm pretty sure, however, I would also regale you with enormous verbiage about our move from Florida to Tennessee, how Florida is flat and expensive and Atlanta traffic SUCKS even at 3 in the afternoon on a weekend, and how right now I am looking out my window at the trees and the hills and the adorable little brick house across the street, listening to the rooster crow tirelessly next door and thinking, "Man. This finally feels like home."
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I am, like, so excited! You're going to comment!
Wait. You ARE going to comment, right?
Don't look the other way. I'm talking to YOU.
See, commenting keeps my self-esteem up. And prevents my head from exploding. So unless you want a self-loathing, headless blogger on your conscience, I'd comment if I were you.
No pressure, though.