I have two sisters. Two. Growing up we often shared one room, a room stuffed with toys of various age levels, bunk beds, piles of clothes, and at one point a cardboard box that Jessica insisted on sleeping in. Next week the oldest of the two younger sisters is moving to Portland to live with us.
Jacquelyn spends many of her school breaks with Andrew and I in our various locales; hanging out, eating dinner, watching reruns of OLD television shows, and loving on Violet and the cats. In January, when we decided to move to Portland ,my husband - because he loves me so much and is quite possibly often the best husband ever - suggested my sister move in with us while she finishes college. My husband volunteered to live with one of his in-laws. Volunteered. Amazing.
So, next week she arrives. I am thrilled. Thrilled. Andrew furnished her empty, waiting bedroom. Violet has already smeared baby grease (mom's know baby grease - it's that weird film permanently sliding off of toddler hands) all on her closet doors. I am busy preparing our first week of meals, dinners served on my special white plates with my vintage pink goblets. I can't wait to take her to the market, and lay around all day doing nothing being sisters. I might even slip in a date night with my husband, now that Violet's aunt is here to dote on her.
I am counting down the days.
