Rug, better w/o tassels

 The uncertainty of where we'll be at the year's end, or in two to three years' time makes me reluctant  to commit to our current place. I like where we live. Our apartment is the best one I've lived in since moving to New York. But as was the case at 10N in Battery Park, which was our home for a mere 8 months,  I can't help thinking of 2A as temporary. I know that Chloe's bedroom looks nothing like the nursery she deserves. And that our hallway has so much more potential to be some kind of gallery walk-through area, which is what I had envisioned when we first moved in. And I know that neither Drew nor I really like spending time in our own bedroom, because:

1) I still have not unpacked my suitcase from 6 months ago.
2) There's no evidence of our personalities anywhere, and despite having discussed all the ways we could adorn our walls with artfully arranged prints, we don't have anything up aside from two sheets of paper that Chloe has colored and pasted stickers on.
3) Our desk is forever unused, because the entire surface is covered with my postcards and candy wrappers, envelopes and binder clips, catalogs and toys, and manuscripts upon manuscripts upon manuscripts.
4) We each have our respective clothes piles (mine is a million times worse), consisting of work clothes that we shed on the floor as soon as we come home, which we seldom ever hang back up or deposit in the laundry basket (which is usually overflowing).

I realize I'm not presenting myself in the best light here, describing how I am basically a slob. Which isn't exactly news to anyone who knows or loves me, anyway. But I guess this all folds into the realization that for a long time now, I haven't liked where I am at, what I'm not doing, and the who-I-am that has pushed the envelope of people's tolerance. It really translates into my inability to make 2A a proper, respectable-looking living space. One that our little family deserves. And above all, a place that feels permanent--whether or not it is.