The UNcomfort of Adventure

This week has been incredibly hard and long. Full of the growing pains that come with moving, changing, learning. A long roadtrip and we were shot into a new life, from the icy mountain peaks of Colorado, to the flat and spiky desert of Texas.
When we arrived, everything was gilded with glittering newness. We're back at a camp, in a community of generous people, living in a double-wide trailer that feels huge compared to our 650 sq. ft. one-bedroom apartment. A new life and a new home and the chance to start afresh. It felt like a dream.

But like all great adventures, the excitement wears off pretty quickly when you're battling strange creatures, wading through bogs, and hacking your way through a sea of thorns. That's the thing about adventures: there's no telling what might happen. You open yourself up to fantastical experience, exhilarating joy, and extreme pain. After all, one of the definitions of adventure is,"a bold, usually risky undertaking; hazardous action of uncertain outcome." But it is that same "uncertain outcome" that makes adventure so desirable, isn't it?

That is, until you're faced with frustrating things that make you question all of your previous decisions.

In baby girl's case, there were literal growing pains. A growth spurt and a second wave of teething coincided with our move, and we transitioned her into her own bedroom once we arrived, so the poor thing has been exhausted. Crying, screaming, waking multiple times at night, refusing to head has been spinning simply from trying to figure out how to take care of her.

On top of that, small negative things kept cropping up (adventure is never comfortable; just ask Bilbo Baggins). Instead of dealing with each one and moving on, I let them pile up in my mind like so many bricks, till they were one massive impenetrable wall.

No dishwasher. Mud wasps. Mice. Screaming baby. No washer or dryer. Talk of scorpions (no sightings yet). Boxes strewn everywhere. No cell service. Stinky stove/oven, stove/oven at all (temporarily). No sleep at night. Wild hogs. No alone time (needy baby + husband home all day). And most annoying of all, little burr prickers coating the ground, which means I can't walk barefoot anymore!

All of these things have the potential to feel like disasters when you let them build up in your head...yet they don't have to be. They're just roadblocks. Thorns, tearing at your clothes and hair and skin. Part of the curse of this world. 
I've been carrying around this burden: that each day must be better, each outing the most fun, each decision the best one, each task worthy of sharing on instagram. I want things to feel good and turn out perfect - all the time.

I keep expecting to reach a place were life "gets good." That magical land where I won't be tired anymore, where I won't be in an awkward transition, where I won't feel like I'm always having to run to catch up.

But that's never going to happen, is it? Life is the awkward transitions.

God waits patiently till my little freak-outs are over, till I take a deep breath and realize that none of this should even phase me. That it's just life, something I only have to take one step at a time. And then he just points out how he gave me an amazing man to walk through it all with me.

AdventureDad has been calm, chill, reassuring, and willing to do everything - from making dinner to rocking the baby to sleep to vacuuming up bugs to dealing with a mouse in a trap at four in the morning to watching Harry Potter with me because it's my favorite.

Last night we had pancakes and eggs for dinner, fried on an electric griddle because we won't have a stove for a day or two. We snuggled on the couch (we have a real couch now!) and we were a family: a little unit riding out the waves of adventure together.


  1. Do you see the cross of blue sky in the clouds? :)

    1. That's awesome! I didn't actually notice that till you said something.