Move it

I should be packing. But, instead, I'm watching KLG and Hoda, checking my Facebook, and drinking a decaf latte I just picked up at Starbucks. Obviously, I'm in serious denial. Also, Sam is at preschool in case you were concerned that I'm being a negligent parent.

So, since I've got all this "free time," I thought I'd give you a quick update on the packing situation. I assumed you were probably checking your Google reader every few minutes in hopes that I'd post something. Wait, you weren't? Well, here's an update anyway.

I'm currently staring at my kitchen which looks like the delivery ramp at Wal-Mart. It's a sea of boxes and I'm tired of looking at it. It makes me sad. This whole week has been like one long, really slow band-aid removal. I want to rip it off already!

If you know me at all, you know that I have a tendency to get anxious when things are a little out of control. Moving is one of the contexts in which things are majorly out of my control and I start to daydream about running away to join the circus or a motorcycle gang. I've had heartburn all week, I've had a twitchy eyelid, I can't sleep, and I wake up before a sane person should even think about waking up. I'm falling apart, people.

And then, there's the ever-present POD looming in the driveway, daring us to fit all our stuff inside. I realize this is a first-world problem if there ever was one. But, I dreamed a dream that this portable storage unit would be the answer to all our moving prayers. And yet, it's unexpected smallish-ness is increasing my stress level, and this may or may not cause me to break out in a rash. This was supposed to be simple: get the POD, squeeze ALL our stuff in, send it off, reunite with it in a month or so. But, instead, the POD is mocking me with its promises to fit "three-four rooms, no problem" when in fact, it's probably only going to fit Sam's train collection and a chair. I exaggerate, but still, I'm concerned.

So, once I finish recounting my moving woes to you here, I'll get off this couch and start trolling the house again to figure out what needs to be mashed into a box with a bunch of other random stuff that I'm not sure why we haven't gotten rid of yet. Anybody need a bread machine?

Sigh.

And, yet, despite all this, in three days we'll be on our way. A new adventure. A new part of our story. A new everything. There's good in this, even in the midst of moving mania. There has to be.

Gotta go. KLG and Hoda are doing surprise makeovers.

Away We Go

I heard once that moving was number three on the list of "Terrible Things That Can Happen to You," right after (1.) a very large boulder falling on your head and (2.) being kidnapped by Somali pirates. Did you know this? Maybe I'm exaggerating a teensy bit, but according to people who know stuff, moving from one place to another is one of the most stressful life events. It's a bit hard to believe that taking stuff from one house and putting it in another one is capable of creating epic weeping and gnashing of teeth, but if you've done it, you know it's true.

Obviously, it's so much more than just the moving around of inanimate objects. It's the moving on from friends and community and favorite places and pediatricians that you like and that one bank teller that always gives your kid a sucker. It's the leaving behind of people and places and things that have become familiar and comforting and part of your story.

Matt and I have moved four times since we've been married, and that doesn't even count the summer we packed ourselves up and moved to Florida to live with college students for seven weeks (Do not be alarmed. We did not join a weird, short term commune, but were staffing a summer mission project at the beach). We're pros at packing up our junk, renting an over-sized truck that pounds gasoline, and rolling down the highway to our next stop. It's almost like a hobby. In fact, when I list things I do in my spare time, I like to say that I read, have friends over for dinner, blog, troll for deals at TJ Maxx, and occasionally pack all my stuff up in a million, zillion liquor boxes and drive it somewhere else. 

But, this move feels a little different. Matt's accepted a job that I think he'll be really happy in; we'll be living near family, which is kind of amazing (i.e. free babysitting); and we've got a little guy who needs a yard and a puppy and pretty soon, a school. So, I'm thinking this move has the potential to be a permanent one. Maybe.

And yet, while there are all kinds of good things about this life upheaval, it's very bittersweet.

Despite it's being less than a thousand square feet, we've loved our little house and have sweet memories of Sam morphing from a crawling baby to a little boy while we've been here. I'm already jealous of the people who are going to moving in to "our" house after we leave. We love our barn church with it's un-air-conditioned sanctuary full of college students and crying babies and occasional dogs and cats wandering through during communion (shout out to Church Lady). We'll miss our community group who we've come to love and feel safe with. We'll miss all the little kiddos who have been Sam's friends and have been the topic of his conversations at night before we go to bed. ('lijah, Jack, Big Sam, Yella, Kade and Quinn, Hah-wee (Harley), Hay-wee (Hailey), Ada and a few others I'm sure he would not appreciate my leaving out.)

We will miss this mountain and all the people who have been part of our little world here.

Six days from now, we'll be making our way to the heart of Georgia, where we'll do this whole thing over again.

Here we go. 

     A little shot of our cozy mountain house back in the winter of 

      2010 when we had eight inches of snow.