Diary of a move, 2

You will never guess what I found yesterday while packing!

Him: 

Oh my flipping god  

Sweet baby Jesus in the heavens, this man is on fire. He is impossibly sexy, elegant, rugged, intelligent, gentle and handsome. I could die.

The boys had yesterday and today off of school. I am going to be honest in telling you that I am quite keen on their returning tomorrow.

For starters, they have demanded a roaring fire in the hearth for pretty much the entirety of this homestay. I like a nice fire, and it's exceedingly cold here in DC, but I am A) nearly out of kindling and not terribly interested in foraging for more in single-digit temps when most everything is frozen to the ground, and B) rather sick of their burning small effigies, Sith plane replicas, and all other "but it's just paper and wood, Mom!" creations in my living room. It's morbid and not relaxing.

Today, for example, Oliver freaked out and rescinded an offer to the fire. "Mom, I want that one back. PLEASE!" Which meant fishing a nearly-aflame masterpiece from atop its pyre and dousing it with ash before any ruin commenced. Not relaxing, people.

Secondly, we have played approximately 712 games of Spot it! which is a delightful game (that I frequently win, heh!) but one whose art director seems to have taken one seriously wrong turn.

When you look at this disk, what do you see?

I see a clock, moon, man, eye, balloon, taxi, tree, and black-eyed tampon with a ball and chain.

Why is the tampon a prisoner? Why has she been fighting and yet continues to smile? Why is she on a children's game? 

I have been asking myself these vexing questions all day instead of packing. I do not yet have an answer. I have only packed one box.

Until this move is a wrap, I have let T know that we will be having extremely simplistic dinners. Fortunately, as long as whatever I put in front of him is flavorful, not mustard or turnip greens, and includes meat at least five days out of seven, he does not care.

Tonight? Bucatini with spicy tomato sauce and speck. Bellissima!

Good night, peeps!

Diary of a Move, 1

I have not cried this many times in one week since my hormones plummeted after Jack was born. Right now, the kids are at Camp Grandparents, T is 38 today, and we have done an incredible amount of packing and tossing, and you literally cannot tell.

Moving is emotional, even when it's thrilling.

I have a glorious fire going in the fireplace, Nutmeg is all flat as a pancake and out like a light on the chair across the way. Percy is next to me, and the hot logs are pop, pop, popping.
I awoke early this morning, had a Bourbon cocktail an hour ago and am now enjoying a beautiful glass of Rioja. When the kids are in Rome...
Or is it, When in Rome...and When the kids are away...

But really, aren't they largely the same?

Part of me adores packing. I appreciate paring back to the essentials, streamlining life and house. Perhaps that's why I once streamlined myself. 

Thank goodness that was so many moons ago.

I like the neatness of filling a box. It's like fitting all my boys' wooden blocks back in the provided holder. They will fit, but exactly. No haphazard dumping or thoughtless packing, no. You must fit them in precisely.

I like precision.

I enjoy tossing that which is no longer understood, remembered, used, needed. I enjoy making piles of "keep", "offer to friends"  and "donate." I like sweeping out the garage and dusting behind the dressers; both are easy to ignore when you don't have to pay attention. 

I also like reading old cards and letters, looking through scrapbooks and into the bowels of recycled frames. Behind the glass is always the most recent photograph; then the one it replaced, the one that one replaced, the one it replaced, and so on until you reach the flimsy black and white image that came with the frame and finally the thick backing that turns the many photos into a small vault.

Moving is messy and neat, exciting and wrenching.

The Academy Awards are next month. After we move. We'll be able to host more than two friends for the first time. I love the Oscars, most definitely because since my memory switched on, my parents have hosted an annual Academy Awards party. It was always blue jeans or black tie; anything goes. So is Louisiana.

After seeing The Big Short last night, today we saw The Martian. Seeing movies is one of the many things you can easily do when your kids are away. It's delightful. 

The Big Short was incredible. The Martian was fine. Seriously, The Big Short is a must-see for all Americans. It, like therapy, should be a requirement of adulthood. It was smart, provocative, educational, funny, well-written, well-acted. 

The pizza is hot off the grill. I'm starving.

Moving makes me hungry.

Whirlwind

Gorgeous evenings here lately. 

We bought a new home, and I've been on an emotional twister since. So much to do, immense excitement, packing, purging, remembering. 

I remember being 17 and leaving the home I'd lived in for ten years. Mom and I sat in my old room and cried and cried, years of memories and laughter and trials in those walls. 

Almost ten years into this house, I feel exactly the same.  

The whole family is on board with Sherlock, an utter delight to this fan. We've lost the pipe- what happened to it? Perhaps it'll be found during the move next month. 

Tom's birthday is tomorrow, and his parents invited the kids to stay tonight and tomorrow night. This time together is really the best gift they could give us. 

Tonight we stopped at Macon Bistro for a quick meal at the bar before seeing The Big Short.  

Fallen grits soufflé with shrimp and sorrel, salad and fried chicken with mac-n-cheese and collard greens! Delish! 

The Big Short was incredible. Seriously. Let us be warned and let such lunacy be possible again.  

I miss the boys tonight, just their quiet, sleepy presences. This apartness is good for us all though, and I'm grateful.