I’m currently sitting at our dinette table with a tiny fan pointed at my face because this motorhome's AC is broken, lumbering down I-84 wondering what we have gotten ourselves into.
Thinking back over this week, a lot of life has happened. And it has all happened in very small quarters. Jason spent his last week at work. He said goodbye (for now) to a group of people that have been his family for almost 14 years. He told contractor after contractor what our future hopes to hold, and the excitement built as his days with Platt Electric Supply dwindled. Jason’s work family has become our family. We have watched them excel as employees, as good friends, and some we have even been able to witness their own families grow through weddings and babies. Jason walks away from a family and career that have repeatedly expressed their gratitude and willingness to have an opening for him whenever we may return. Maybe knowing that Jason has an open offer to a job and paycheck should we decide the mobile life isn’t for us, makes this leap into the unknown a little easier to take. But in reality, I think all five of us are wondering what we’ve committed ourselves to. Maybe the boys more than Jason and I.
Our youngest, Cord, is seven years old and has been against every change we have made so far: Hey, Cord, we are going to home school this year. “No, thank you. I want to be at the school.” Hey, Cord, we are selling our house and moving into an RV. “But I want to live in the house.” Hey, Cord, we are only going to be in the RV for a little while, then we’ll live on a boat for a couple years. “No, thanks. I want to live in the RV forever.” Hey Cord, we’re finally taking our first trip in the RV tomorrow! “I just want to stay at Grandma and Popa’s house, please.” His heart is so precious and tender, and as parents, we need to be sure to recognize his place in this grand scheme of ours. I know this is where we should be, and the direction we are headed is right. Too many check marks have happened for this to not be the right path for us, but that doesn’t make mending a few boys’ broken hearts any easier.
While Jason worked his final week, we parked our RV at his parents’ home. How lucky are we to have family willing to take us in for as long as we need AND they have full RV hook-ups? Astronomically lucky. And tremendously loved. The boys spent the week between the RV and hanging with Grandma and Popa getting the special treatment and snacks that only Grandma Luke can provide.
When we weren’t with Grandma or Popa, swim lessons, work, or celebrating Ryan turning an astounding 14, we were all in the RV.
All. Of. Us.
Jason, Ryan, Barrett, Cord, our English Mastiff, Sage, our barn cat turned lap lover, Moxie, and myself, all inside the 30-foot RV we have lovingly named Beatrice (or Beaty for short).
No wool is over my eyes, the fantasy of minimalist living is upfront and center stage, and this lifestyle is not all rainbows and unicorns. I knew this wouldn’t be easy, but I seriously downplayed the extent my patience and need for an orderly living space would be tested. We are packed and bursting at the seams, and that doesn’t even include the living bodies. Add in our family of five, a 200lb dog, a squirrelly barn cat, and you have yourself a bonified Big Top Circus acrobatic situation. We have stuff, on top of things, on top of doodads, on top of humans, on top of pets. All piled into less than 250 square feet of living space. One way traffic only, folks. We are constantly swimming upstream. There is no such thing as “my space” or “that’s mine”. Bedding is piled up in one spot, to then be moved to another spot, then moved back again all in a day’s time.
We are all in this sardine can together, and by golly, it’s going to be great! That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. And that this is only temporary. Our dream remains on the water, aboard a sailing catamaran, in the tropics. So, when my nights are sleepless due to Satan sending a cricket to hide INSIDE the rig, or my days are exacerbated by the RV’s air conditioning freezing over, or the boys are at each other’s throats because there’s no where else to go, I remind myself of the long game – of where we hope to be six months down the road, of the adventures that lay ahead of us, of the places we will be fortunate enough to see because we’re completely mobile and anchor free.
But maybe I need to be reminding myself that these are the moments that count. These are the times where life is lived, lessons are learned, and bonds are formed. Take it all in for what it is – hard, intense growing pains that totally suck and feel impossible to overcome but teach us to slow down and inhale for a minute. Uncertainties that give us time with each other that we’ve never had before. Deep conversations that only happen when a nine-year-old has had a hard day and can’t take another breath before breaking down or breaking something.
So here’s to final paychecks and house proceeds in the bank, an email out to our boat broker, and the squelching hot maiden voyage in Beaty, the classiest of the Class C RVs.
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