Sweet freedom whispered in my ear
So I have a job offer.
The catch? The start time is revolting and I’d have to leave my house at *shudder* in the morning. I need help.
The housemate, also my ex and the father of my son, says that he will help — including being willing to get to my place at 3:30am two to three times a week, depending on my schedule. He has given his word. (There’s someone reading this whom I would like to note this and pass it on. He has given his word. I want this marked, as it’s my way of getting out of this house and making sure that both of my children are safe.)
This means that I am about to have my freedom back. I will have my own space back. My own dishes. My own silverware. A dishwasher. My own dining table and chairs. My daughter can have her own new bed, and it can be a bunk bed if she wants one (I think she might.) I can actually get myself a real bed, a headboard and footboard and such. I can have my pretty key cabinet hung up again, and my own sofa and I can get a wineglass cabinet to actually have my collection of pretty wineglasses on display.
My children can have their own rooms! And I can set up routines and decorate exactly as I please and I can probably paint the place if I want (as long as I repaint anything weird before I move out) and holy shit I can have central heating and air again. (I admit it, I’m a modern chick. I love camping, but I do like my central air and heating to come home to.)
Oh… this is too marvelous to think about, and I’m afraid to think any more because it might vanish, but I want it documented that it’s within reach right now!