31 posts tagged “moving”

I should let the blogosphere know that today was a much better day here in sunny California.  In fact in started off particularly well.  The children learned that the only dark place in the house (because there are skylights and light tunnels everywhere) is the dressing area in my closet, so they shut themselves in there with various types of flashlights for nearly an hour this morning, enabling me to get a lot done.  I would've gotten a lot more done had I been able to figure out how to lock them in there, but then my Very Concerned Friends probably would've finally reported me to the authorities. 

The minions were well-behaved enough that we planned an Exciting Trip Out to hit the big, huge, totally awesome Whole Foods in nearby Los Altos for a major stock-up, and then we boldly took a picnic lunch to the Guv's new office (blanket included, as he has no furniture yet).  We returned home to assemble my new co-pilot bike trailer, only to find it damaged/dented and impossible to securely put together, so we had Exciting Trip Out Number Two of the day to return it... new one will arrive Monday or thereabouts.  Since the day was going so smoothly, and since Petunia has been freaking out about school supplies, we decided to extend Exciting Trip Out Number Two, adding Part B by heading to a nearby Target (which, sadly, is not anywhere near as nice as our Jersey store was) to pick up odds and ends and a bike pump for the aforementioned trailer (and the kids' flat tires too).  (Wow, that was a horribly put together, long sentence.  Whatever...)

And the day doesn't end there... Exciting Trip Out Number Three was an exciting post-dinner bike ride to Petunia's new school at the end of our street.  I thought that her eyes were going to bulge out of her head when she saw the Totally Awesome (!!!) playground.  We found the third grade classrooms, climbed on all of the crazy, rope-heavy, obstacle course equipment, and headed home just past dark.  Petunia's assessment?  "Mom, I can't wait for school to start so that I can have recess!"  Hey, I'll take it -- or anything else that makes her happy to be here!

So, to all of my Very Concerned Friends, God is in his heaven, Dash didn't punch me in the face at all today, my children are in bed sleeping, the laundry drainage hose is reconnected properly, and I've just polished off a bag of Newman's Own wheat-free, dairy-free chocolate chip cookies, which have a big warning sticker on them about palm oil decimating rainforests.  Funny, I never saw that sticker back East!   Gotta love it here...

This was A Day.

The Guv left early this morning to go sailing in Seattle.  For work... yeah...

Anyway, the morning started out innocently enough, meaning that I was able to take a three-minute shower without the children either killing each other or escaping the house.  That huge victory made realize that yes!  I can get this packing done with the children playing nicely together for much of the day.  And it was that thought, crossing my mind, that disturbed some electromagnetic force affecting only Dash, and he became The Child From Hell.

I don't say that lightly.  I LOVE MY SON.  But seriously, he started crying at like 8 am, and he started being violent.  He shook the guinea pigs' cages.  He threw stuff, including a shoe at his dad's brand new pride and joy television.  He bit his sister, he trashed the house, and then he came after me, announcing, for NO reason, "I hate you!" then, as I teared up, proceeded to punch me in the face.  Hard.

I tried everything (well, almost everything, because I don't believe in spanking my kids, though it was quite tempting today).  I held him tight and rocked him.  I took him outside (and amazingly, no one called the cops on the shrieking kid).  I quickly took him inside.  I offered candy, the Wii, the TV, the park, everything.

And then a new friend came by, the founder of the blogging group for which I write, bearing bags of gifts, and my son screamed the whole time she was in the house, except for the three minutes his sister distracted him outside.  I don't know that I have ever been so horrified in my life.  He's not hurt.  He's no longer sick.  He's not in pain.  He's not upset.  He loves it here, and he says so every day, so I can't even blame the move.  So, after my new friend left, I sunk to the floor and asked, "Why, oh why, Dash, are you still crying two hours after you started crying?"

He said, through clenched teeth, "BECAUSE I AM..." and I dodged another punch.

I don't know what the f#%k to do with this kid.

I asked, "What would make you stop crying?"

"NOTHING!" he shouted, and threw a shoe. 

I felt that if I were in the house for one more minute with him, my already-pounding head might actually explode.  So I did what any sane person would do (not!).  I strapped him in the car, with his sister there too, and shuttled stuff back and forth from the house, and then I started driving.  He stopped screaming two minutes into the trip.

"Where are we going?" Dash asked, sniffling.

"To buy your sister a horse shirt," I told him, since Petunia has been freaking out to no end because I wouldn't let her buy this horribly fitting horse shirt from the Gap last week, and I finally found one through Gymboree that would probably fit her... then learned that line was already at the outlet stores.  (BTW, who does the Gap make clothes for, Chinese gymnasts?  Because I can't see how any non-waif child could wear most of their stuff.)

"Can I get a horse shirt?" Dash asked.  "NO!  A digger shirt?"

"If we can find one, sure," I answered. 

And for the remaining twenty minutes, the car was S-I-L-E-N-T.  I could tell that even Petunia, ashen-faced, had a headache from his ranting.  We arrived at The Great Mall and had a scream-free lunch.  We bought school shoes at Stride-Rite and yes, finally, a horse shirt for Petunia, and a rocketship shirt for Dash.  We ate ice cream.  We came home.

The screaming started when we walked through the door.  Fortunately, this time, I quashed it by somehow breaking the laundry machine (kidding -- I'm sure it was improperly installed), requiring all of us to mop up a flood.  Dash discovered the drippage into the basement himself and tried to clean it up.  Then he decided to vacuum the guinea pig cage himself with the guinea pigs in it (great example, Guv!) and made a holy mess.  (Yes, he plugged it in and turned it on himself, God help us all.)

We ate a silent dinner.  The kids silently watched Sponge-Bob and I-Carly, and, at 7:30, marched off to bed.

Sometimes, I wonder if I should blog about stuff like this, because it might make me seem like a poor excuse for a mother, or make Petunia seem over-indulged, or Dash seem out-of-control.  Today, that was all true.  But tomorrow will be better.  It has to be, because I can't imagine how it could get worse.  Oh, wait, I live in earthquake country... Yet somehow, I fear my three year-old worse.

Here we are, in California.  Every day, we wake up and pinch ourselves.  Are we really here?  Did this really happen?  Is the sun going to shine today, all day, and are we going to the park?  Yes, yes, yes, and yes. 

Words fail to describe how much we all love this house and this town.  Perhaps you've already read of the Guv's love for the house. Dash, who asked every single day this summer if we could move back to New Jersey, has never mentioned that again.  He wants to be in our shaded back yard all day, every day -- when he and Petunia aren't at the park at the end of the street.  When Petunia saw that we could walk to our town's Children's Library -- and especially when I mentioned that soon she could walk there by herself, as she doesn't even need to cross a street -- in addition to the Children's Zoo and Museum and another great park, she, too, stopped asking to go "home."  Even my mother, who lives on a gorgeous Florida beach, is in heaven here.  I suggested that she and my dad house- and pet-sit while we're away next summer.  It took her about two seconds to accept that offer, calling it "a free vacation."  Every new thing we discover -- the local mall, the markets, the restaurants -- is like icing on an already delicious cake.  We are knee-deep in boxes, but we are happy!

Now, the downside, because there always is one... Upon arriving to the house, the Guv opened a packet from our school district indicating that Petunia was set to attend a school four miles away.  Considering that there are three schools within a half-mile of our house, this situation made us very unhappy.  The Guv visited the administration office, some mistakes had been made, yadda yadda yadda... and today, we received a letter from the school at the end of our street.  We'll confirm on Monday that receiving this letter means that Petunia is set to attend that school, but, suffice it to say, we are breathing a huge sigh of relief.

Then there's the downside with Dash, who started getting sniffly yesterday, then today ended up vomiting on my mom while the Guv and I snuck out to dinner.  He's in bed now, dosed with FeverAll and nebulized because of a sudden bad cough, and I'm all kinds of upset.  I'm fairly sure that he has an ear infection, these being signs of his past ones.  We're scheduled to meet his new ENT on Thursday for a tubes check, and let's just say that I'm pretty sure we'll be there on Monday instead. 

Beyond his sudden illness, there's The Potty Issue.  According to literature from his new preschool, Dash MUST be potty-trained, even out of pull-ups, by the start of school, on or about September 1.  Dash could care less about this (or any other) policy.  He entertains us by occasionally using his potty chair when we place him on it, but gone are the Vermont days when he'd run to poop on the potty.  We're in California now, and he's going to do things on Dash Time, which is 'round about never, perhaps.  I'm fairly sure that we'll be preschool drop-outs before the year even starts, especially since, beyond the stubborness issue, Dash WILL NOT sit on a "real" potty.  It's his potty chair or nothing.  And since I'm now au pair-less, it's preschool or No Break For Me.  I wring my hands.  He's sick.  I can't force him to stay in underpants and go every fifteen minutes right now, which was my plan for Monday.  Maybe he'll be well by Friday.  That gives me a week and a half.  That's enough time, right?

In any event, on Monday evening I head to my first Silicon Valley Moms Blog gathering, where I'll finally meet some of my virtual cowriters; it's my goal to have my first post up on the SVMB site on Monday as well.  The Guv will continue settling into his West Coast office, and my mom and I will manage kids and unpack throughout the week.  It's a great thing to have a grandma on hand to help us, and it's great that the kids are enjoying our new home and hometown.  I'm not quite ready to wave the victory flag -- not until Dash is well, at any rate -- but I think this process is going better than could be expected.  I'm sure the constant sunshine and 72-degree weather has more than a little to do with that.  Ouch!  I just pinched myself again.  It's really true; we're finally here.

That shaking of the earth you just felt?  That was the Rox and Roll entourage arriving in Silicon Valley.  It will take us a few days to get set up for our new gig, so check back soon for highlights from our westward migration.

The Guv is in California.  Since the moment I knew he walked into the house, I'd been dying to hear from him.  When he finally did call, he asked if I wanted the good news or the bad news first.  The bad news was that Petunia might be sent to an elementary school as far away from us as you can get in the school district (a four-mile drive).  Friends assure me that this will not happen, but I am stewing about the situation nonetheless.  With a house that involved quadrupling our mortgage and with three elementary schools within half a mile of that house, I thought we'd found a prime location.  Apparently quite a few other families thought the same before we arrived on the scene.

In any event, the bad news of the potentially unfortunate school overcrowding situation prevented me from hearing the good news of the Guv's love of the house.  (Mental note: ALWAYS pick good news first.)

He told me lots of that good news in about twenty interesting e-mails last night.

See if you can decipher this: "bte, the wdth inthe lndry rm is 58in.  allrgd.y, he dryr is 27 in . . . sd i recall, the wshr abnd drty are the samw width, si we may be ok./  ig not, we're f-ed, as I ghjvae no idea how to get thos shelves dwn ... .This soneg is profounbd.  did I saY I love this iMc,.  Did I day I ove this hgouse,  IDud I sat I love oyu>"

Or this: "by the way, the saon "wisgh you were here" by incubujsx justg ca,e on and i do . . . evrt since line i gere this song, I imahine you and mi drivinh down the 280 in a convertible.,  and me lookin at you sayin i lovre you, i lvoe ou I lovre uou"

For the life of me, I felt the love, but I couldn't figure out why he was typing so badly.  Every e-mail was all messed up like that.  I didn't uncover this one until this morning: "f$&k this hous is awesome  did i say that already?  this is my last natty, I promise . . .the damage is done, tought  pls dpont call early.  lovre to you"

I'm gluten-free.  I don't drink beer.  Thus, I had no idea what a "last natty" was... but the "dpont call early" gave away that it was something the Guv had imbibed in considerable quantity.

He'll get away with it, too, because he was clearly celebrating his "ove" for our new "hgouse."  Since he bought it sight-unseen, I am so relieved.  I'd have some Natty myself, but I can't (the wheat, sigh).  So instead, I'll just say, Guv, I lovre you too.  Here's to a great fresh start on the Left (yes, pun intended indeed).

Today, Friday, gave me a present.  On this, our fourth-to-last day in Vermont, I finally think that I need to get out of these Green Mountains to remember what the Real World is like. 

This afternoon, the kids, au pair Maria (whose last day of work is today, by the way) and I attended a function at a local library -- not the library local to us at which I volunteer, but, rather, at another local library nearby that is run under the umbrella of our actual local library.  Anyway, the library director asked if I'd like to help with the event, a children's concert by The Swing Peepers followed by an ice cream social to celebrate the end of the summer reading program.  She invited the kids, so I thought, why not?  And I followed her from our local library to this other local library at top speed on back roads that made me realize, "Hey!  We are in some serious mountains!" just before Petunia almost threw up.  Half an hour later, we arrived at a place the likes of which I'd never before seen, and I have seen some crazy places in my life.  I am from West-by-God-Virginia!  But this place, this little tiny town, was just plain Alice-In-Wonderland strange. 

Everything in the town is extremely old, and most of it is decrepit and falling down.  "Everything" doesn't amount to much, though, because I'm fairly sure that the population of this place doesn't exceed a few dozen people.  I saw one general store, but no other businesses at all, not even churches.  When my kids took a little walk, noticing some apple trees across the street, another kid said, "That's Pete's house!  Pete likes apples!"  I get the distinct feeling that every child in town knows the birthday and the preferred fruit of every other townsperson.  I also think that every child in town, about ten of them, attended the program at the one-room library.  The library is in an old house that also holds the town's "auditorium", a defunct pair of bowling alleys in the dank basement, and a Boy Scout meeting room (those are the only rooms I could decipher, anyway).  Apparently, the town's founder wanted a community gathering place, but most of it hasn't been kept up since he founded the town a couple of hundred years ago.   I say "most of it" because the building has a newly-installed handicapped entrance, which freaked me out because I'm not sure that the building's floor was stable enough to support a ramp let alone an elevator.  

In any event, at the start of the concert, there were a couple of handfuls of children, but nary a parent to be found.  Things got weirder as the program began and the parents did start showing up after work.  There were people who looked like they'd come in from afternoon tea at Dartmouth (aka beer pong), and there were some who looked like they'd come in from a Dartmouth faculty meeting.  In between those two polar opposites sat a handful of people who looked exhausted from a long week: secretaries, laborers, farmers.  Last, the most bizarre looking family -- a couple with a baby girl -- ambled in, reeking of marijuana smoke.  The dad couldn't stop smiling and giggling throughout the concert, which is good, because, from his very sickly, sallow pallor, I'd have thought he was dead otherwise.  His daughter, who couldn't have been one, was wan also, with hair a shade of yellow (not at all blonde) that suggested sickness, too.  Perhaps they're both severely anemic, have liver disorders, or vegan... but they're not well, and I was disturbed.  The mom seemed to have her act together when she wasn't looking at the ceiling for Puff the Magic Dragon.  When the Mountain Man with the foot-long white beard and clothes from 1850 walked in, I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't high myself.   (Not that I'd know; I graduated from Wesleyan without ever inhaling.  I should've gotten some kind of award for that.)

Now, don't get me wrong: I love Vermont.  I think I'll probably die and be buried here, because, if I had to pick a place to spend my eternity, it would be these mountains.  I am at peace here, even in a room full of drunk, high, odd people... making me think that I'm going to like Berkeley a lot, too, but anyway... Despite how very weird this afternoon's volunteer activity was to me, there's one thing that I noticed.  The people surrounding me seemed very, very happy, even the tired ones not altered by various substances.  They knew and welcomed each other, and they wanted to know who I was.   They hugged their kids and paid attention.  They restored my faith that one doesn't have to be a child of a venture capitalist, a doctor or a lawyer to have a decent upbringing (in most cases -- the cadaverous family clearly needs some intervention).  These parents came home from a long workweek and met up with their kids at the library.  It restored my faith in (most of) American parenting.

That said, I realized this evening that I finally feel like it's time for us to go West.  I've soaked up a lot of Vermont living this summer, seen a lot of new places, experienced a different kind of life off of the map.  And while I appreciate the different pace of life here and the different lifestyles, and while I'm sure I'll wish in just a few week's time to be back here watching fireflies from my screened porch, this place is my vacation world, not my real world.  It's been a pleasure to check out, but now I'm checking back in.  California, here I come!

We're not leaving Vermont until next week, but I'm feeling broken-hearted already.  Everything we're doing these days is "the last" something of the summer... the last trip to the Montshire Museum, the last trip to the dump (the kids' very favorite thing to do), the last breakfast at the Farmer's Diner, the last hike down to the bottom of the Gorge.  On the one hand, I'm so excited about starting our new life in Silicon Valley... but, on the other hand, I want to stomp my feet and say "damn it, why can't life be like this?"

I've always claimed to be fearless, but I realized this week that's not true.  I'm very, very afraid of the "always on" society that is Silicon Valley.  I don't want to be out to dinner with my husband scrolling through messages on his Crackberry (then again, that's no different from NJ).  I don't want an I-Phone that receives Twitter updates from people who think it's very important that I know where they are every minute of the day.  I don't even want to Twitter at all!  I don't want to be where people answer their cell phones when I'm in the middle of a conversation with them.  I don't want to deal with my seven year-old's sure-to-come-soon requests for her own I-Phone.  (Gasp!  She doesn't have one yet.)

Of course, I realize that I've never lived in California, and my perceptions of it -- based largely on my husband's positive experiences -- may be way off.  I know that I’m generalizing, and I know that’s wrong.  In all fairness, I can’t wait to make some new friends out there.  I'm excited to try life on the Left.  I'm excited at being in what my husband insists is a more intellectual, more progressive place.  I'd rather talk about the potential ramifications of Obama's windfall tax than about whether or not LiLo's gay.  And I'll like being in a place where the latter is not so scandalous.

But... yesterday, I took Petunia fishing for the first time with a "local" friend who's dad's a farmer.  He doesn't have a cell phone, and they're practically off the grid altogether.  He’s a lawyer who gave it all up to lead the simple life, like taking his kid fishing with a friend on a sunny summer morning.  As Petunia caught her first fish -- a tiny little sunfish -- her smiling face stood out against the backdrop of the rolling Green Mountains, a little bit of fog lifting off of the river giving her a nice background glow.  I could’ve cried with the beauty of the scene.  My daughter has her own computer, a Wii, a Nintendo DS, a dozen Webkinz and way, way too much other stuff.  But in that moment, holding up her little fish on the line, the pride in her smile made me remember that the best stuff in life isn’t “stuff” – it’s experiences that matter, that last.  

My biggest fear about our move is that it’ll be more the “stuff” that matters.  My beautiful new house that meant quadrupling our mortgage might not be spectacular enough.  And, for shame, our cars aren’t even hybrids!  I don’t want to be in a place where I have to compete – or, more appropriately, where competition takes a toll on my wallet.  But mostly, I don’t want to ever again find myself in a place where I can’t just be me… which reminds me why I’m really happy about this move.  I never felt like I could just be myself in New Jersey.  I felt like I spent a lot of time trying to be someone I’m not, which is reflected in part in the hundreds of dollars worth of scrapbooking supplies that remain unused.  Oh, I didn’t have to go to the parties, and I didn’t have to buy the stuff, but that seemed to be what people did, so I did it too.  And I’m sorry for that, both for being a poser in that regard and for buying “stuff” I didn’t want or need.  I don’t want to Twitter because everyone else does, but can I avoid it and still fit in?

Regardless, this time around, I’m going to do things differently.  I need to remember that wherever I am, I need to just be myself – a girl from Appalachia that appreciates a simpler life because I grew up in a simpler time in a simpler place (and before anyone from back home gets all offended, rest assured that I mean that in an entirely positive way).  I also need to remember that I can share that kind of simple life with my kids.  Out West, I need to remember that when life gets too hectic, I can take the kids fishing.  I can turn off my cell phone, and I can ignore the pace of life passing me by.  I just have to be okay with the consequences of that, and I think I will be. When Silicon Valley makes that tough, I’ll remember that I always have these Green Mountains to come home to in the sweet summertime.  ‘Til then, I’ll keep that picture of Petunia in my head, remembering each time she asks for another “thing” that the best things I can give her are experiences.  We’ll have plenty of those to look forward to anew in our all new home.

Recently, it seems like our family has been going, going, going at light speed.  While I've always preferred being busy to being bored, it's summer, for goodness sake.  I remember spending hours and hours in swimming pools, outside riding my bike, and at playgrounds all summer.  Aside from Vacation Bible School, I don't think I really did "camp" until I was in junior high marching band.  (Yes, I was that cool playing my flugelhorn!)  But for my kids, especially for Petunia, age 7 going on 14, summer means having to be within sight at least, but preferably within physical contact, of friends at all times.  In lieu of that, we have to be doing something exciting.  One day last week, I thought: sure!  why not?  In one day, we went to Sugarbush Farm to feed the animals and sample cheese (in that order -- gross!) and to pick up picnic supplies... from there, we hit King Arthur Flour's Baker's Store to pick up a loaf of fresh spelt bread... from there, we took our goodies to Dartmouth to have a picnic and games of hide-and-seek and chase until the Very Scary Bell Tower tolled... and then we went to the Montshire Museum of Science... and then we went to the Hanover Farmer's Market... and then we went to our club's pool... and then we went home, where I sauteed fresh broccoli to eat with fresh homemade pasta marinara for dinner.

Man, was I tired. 

The problem with my kids is that after such an exciting day, the next day has to be twice as exciting.  And if it's not, they make me pay.  The problem is that I didn't know this Rule of Childhood until it was too late, and I was yelling, and Petunia was sassing, and Dash was bruising himself trying to fly again...

And it hasn't let up.  While I expect hell-raising out of 3 year-old Dash, I never expected 7 year-old Petunia to join in at a decibel level far exceeding my own, and I can yell pretty loudly.

So I gave in.  We did more stuff.  We've been to the Montshire twice more, to VINS, to the pool, to the lake, to the local free Thursday concert replete with playing in the mud of the nearby river... the Guv took them bowling, to the arcade, to McDonald's... and they're still all wound up.

Then today, as we loaded the minivan to send the Guv and our two dear, sweet guinea pigs to California, it hit me.

We're moving.  Again.  That's why they're out of control. 

There is no harnessing or containing the energy of two children who know that Something Big Is Happening, so the next nine days are going to be sheer hell lots of fun.  We're going to go and go and go, because if we stop I'm going to be hoarse from yelling -- not because I'm that loud, but, rather, because I have to yell things like "don't throw that endtable over the catwalk again!" because that's how wild my children are being right now.

So I'm going to go and pour some Goldschlager over ice cream, or at least over some ice, and kick myself for being so stupid as to think that the Guv's departure and our remaining behind would be a swell idea.  Each day's going to be better than the next, I can just feel it...

We've seen little evidence of moving-related stress in our easygoing Petunia.  She has always wanted nothing more than having her dad around has much as possible, and she understands that this move makes that a reality.  She can't wait to walk to meet him for dinner sometime, and she hopes that, every once in a while, she can do her homework in his office.  She's dying to meet her West Coast cousins and is generally excited about exploring California.  Her to-do list includes things like camping in Yosemite, checking out Tahoe and riding over the Golden Gate Bridge.

Dash, on the other hand, does not want to be from California.  He wants to be from New Jersey for the rest of his life.  "Mervont" (what he calls Vermont) is okay only because we could, and did, always go home to New Jersey.  In part because of the giant moving truck that took away all of our stuff, Dash is finally understanding that we don't live in America's armpit New Jersey anymore, and he's not taking it well.  Here are some examples of our very frequent conversations:

Dash, at least twenty times each day: "Why did we sold our house?"

Mama: "We sold our house because we're moving to California."

Dash: "When we're done with California, and when we're done with Mervont, then we move back to New Jersey."

*****
Variation 1:

Dash: "Why did the moving truck take all of our stuff out of our New Jersey house?"

Mama: "The moving truck is taking our stuff to our new house in California."

Dash: "Okay, but after they get there, and after they put the stuff in our new house, can they put it back on the truck and take it back to New Jersey?  Back to our house?"

Mama: "We're going to live in California, Dash, for a few years."

Dash, with increasing anxiety: "No, Mama, we live in New Jersey.  I want to be Wally and Beaver's neighbor.  Can we live at their house next time?"

*****
Variation 2:

Dash: "Where did my swingset go?"

Mama: "A nice family with four children bought our swingset because the people who bought our house in New Jersey didn't want it."

Dash: "Is my swingset going to be in California?"

Mama: "No, but there's a park at the end of our street."

Dash: "When we move back to New Jersey, can I have my swingset back?"

*****

I have to be blunt: this move wasn't hard for me at all.  From the looks of it, our idyllic little town, straight out of Norman Rockwell painting, was the perfect place to raise children.  And I loved many of the people and places there. What wrecked that dream was my husband's long commute and frequent travel, coupled with constant sickness (Dash's especially).  It makes sense to choose to live in a better climate where the Guv can walk to work.  We'll all be together, and well, in one place. 

But it does break my heart that Dash doesn't understand that.  He invokes our beloved neighbors, the Cleavers, almost every day.  Today, he even said, "Can Wally and Beaver move too?" and when I told him that no, the Cleavers were remaining in New Jersey, he cried his little heart out. 

I'll miss them too, Dash, but I won't miss not being able to breathe from spring through fall, or my constant worrying about air quality for your sister, or the repeat visits to hospitals in Philly to address your many issues.  I won't miss feeling like your dad's never home, so much so that I had to outsource my sanity to an au pair.  It's time to move on, hard as it is.  You're only three, but I bet you'll remember this move -- hopefully for the good that's coming more than the heartbreak you feel now.  We can always visit your beloved New Jersey -- but no, we're not moving back.

The packers come tomorrow, and I am dead on my feet.  If you're like me, any night before taking a vacation, you're up until 1 am packing... you've had that happen too, right?   Except tomorrow, we're not leaving for vacation -- we're leaving for good.  We've only been in this house for a little over four years, but there are a lifetime of memories, princess objects that Petunia (my budding paleontologist) no longer wants, and, still, many pencils left to sort through.  My curb already has ten black trash bags full of garbage, and there will be ten more by the end of the day, alongside some rebar, an old window, and various other things that we should've thrown out long ago -- except that this was supposed to be our last house.  Ha.

Last night, the Guv doubled over laughing hysterically.  He fell on the floor, and I couldn't tell if he was laughing, crying, having a heart attack or what.  (This is fairly normal behavior for the Guv, so I didn't call 911.)  When he came to, as I stood over him, arms crossed and waiting for him to shut up and do something already, he said: "I just finished cobbling together hundreds of thousands of dollars for a down payment on a house I've never seen.  A HOUSE I'VE NEVER SEEN." 

Whenever I am angry with him, like RIGHT NOW AS HE IS GOLFING WHILE I'M DOING EVERYTHING FOR THIS MOVE, someone needs to remind me of that comment by the Guv, as he lay on the floor, because I don't ever require proof that he loves me (after almost twenty years, I just know)... but the proof in this pudding is that he's buying us a ridiculously overpriced house that he's never even seen just because I told him it's the one.  So I'll stop my whining, and return to my packing, and try to tuck my frustration and sadness and imminent hyteria and, most of all, my fatigue away in some corner of my heart where I can't find it until we get to the Green Mountains on Friday, when I can finally have my nervous breakdown.

New Jersey, it's been a real pleasure, but I won't be back.  I'm moving to my last house, again.