Gettin' A Move On It

You could feel the tension seething out of the house.  It was a snarling, bitter creature.  My nerves were taught and being pulled repeatedly over a child-sized cheese grater.  Two children sized, to be precise.  It was moving day.  And not a second too soon. 

Arguments had begun breaking out amongst the family members about things that no one really cared about like who loved our friend Sloane the most or who ate the most Cheerios for breakfast.   My husband was threatening to sleep at work until the move was completed - as he walked into the vortex of hideous the minute he stepped through the door. Which would have been fine as he was annoying the crap out of me. Apparently he was on strike from housework and menial tasks like replacing rolls of toilet paper. And, then there was that godawful habit he had of breathing in and out and then in again. It was robbing me of my will to live. 

The majority of our belongings had already been carted over and put away in our new residence.  Painstaking effort had been taken to find exactly the right "home" for each item.  Does the rarely used crystal really need to be put with the sippy cups?  There was only a few items remaining in the garage - mostly pictures and things that needed a larger piece of furniture to be brought from it's cocoon of slumber in our former residence.  The "old house" was now a shell - holding only the large items that I got all diva about. (I refused to carry things that weigh more than an armadillo.  They are about 10 lbs, right?).

The skies opened up and five angels appeared with two gigantic trucks.  They were sent from heaven (or as it turns out Mexico City) to move us to our new home.  We stayed out of their way as they systematically dismantled our furniture and unveiled a purgatory of crumbs, legos, crayons and lost hair clips.   We piled the last of the personal items into our cars and began yet another new chapter in our Momaical lives. 

En route, Lena announced she'd sooooo much rather be Matilda because when her parents moved away she got to live with her teacher.  And make her own pancakes when she was 4 years old.  And that I am the meanest, worstest mommy ever because I insist on taking her with me to our new home and never just let her do whatever she wants.  At that point, I was ready to drop her off with the teacher of her choice.  But, that would mean I'd have to dig her out from underneath the printer, stuffed chinchilla, baby blankets and laundry baskets.  So, she continued on with us to her new "prison."  Emmeline just kept saying  "Me hungy" which is not really all that weird as she's always hungry.

The craziness continues as the caravan arrives at our new home.  Not only are the movers here, but so is the cable company, the water delivery guy to set up our new cooler and the AT&T guy who is wearing body odor like it was Chanel No. 5.

I am trying to be in 25 places at once and failing miserably. I can hear the movers freaking out in Spanish because someone put the doors to our Pottery Barn cabinet in upside down.  My husband is freaking out because there is too much stuff still in the garage.  My kids are freaking out because they hate it here and want to go to "home."  Plus, the clock is ticking closer to the time when we are supposed to be at a memorial service for my girlfriends father-in-law who recently passed away.   I would like to freak out but do not have the time for it right now.

I catch Emmeline as she is almost completely inside the crawl space under the house where the cable guy is snaking wires.  Tick tock, tick tock - service is in 45 minutes.  I look like I just crawled out of said crawl space: filthy, hair a nest of hideous, bruises in multiple inexplicable locations.  Forgot to give the babysitter our address.  No, I don't know where a phone splitter is.  Yes, I do want you to put the bar there.  Yes. I am sure...well...now that you mention it...it may look better over there.  No.  I have no idea where the tape measure is. Tick tock, tick tock.  HOW MUCH FOR MY HIGHLY EXPENSIVE ANGELS??????  Dios mio!!! Do you take first born children or husbands instead? 

Miraculously, the plan comes together.  Everyone is out in time.  My babysitter arrives and takes my unruly children off my tired, scraped up, dirty hands.  I manage to locate a somewhat appropriate outfit for the service (but opt for flats instead of the sassy heels because my feet have developed their own heartbeat from running up and down the staircase 7,000 times.) We attend the beautiful service and are reminded that family, friends and love are what makes days like today worth it.

The following morning, I am smiling in the kitchen looking out the window into the back yard.  The house shrouds me in calmness.  I feel as if we are supposed to be here. Then the Mom-guilt begins to creep in and I worry "Are the kids ok?  Did we make the right decision?" 

I look outside where Lena is in the grass pushing her baby stroller. She is singing on the top of her lungs: "When things go wrong, I say dang it!  We don't swear, we say dang it!  Dang, dang, dang it, all day!"

Emmeline is closely behind her.  She is pushing her pram that is overflowing with babies.  She is also singing:  "You say dang it, me say dammit.  Dammit, dammit, dammit, aw day!!!"

And, that's when I knew we were home.