Monday, July 12, 2010

Last night I was laying (lying?) in bed counting how many times we've moved in the last 10 years, and when I got to seven, remembered how I swore that time would be our last, except here we are at number nine, surrounded by boxes.

It really snuck up on me. There I was, just a few short weeks ago, lamenting my fate--pondering the probability that our current (rental) house would be owner-occupied by late summer, and how we'd have to relocate, etc. And lo and behold, they're probably on their way to the Dubai airport even as I speak. Okay, maybe just packing suitcases-but due to arrive by the weekend. So we gotta get the lead out in a hurry, and at least I have experience, right? With moving. That's what I keep telling myself.

Only every once in a while I think: I can't do this. Box up my life again. In particular, how to organize these random items: a really good yogurt coupon I know I'll use, papier-mache volcano the kids have not yet painted, bag of mismatched socks, fledgling marble collection? I keep moving it from one spot to another on my kitchen counter, thinking there will eventually be enough of each type of thing to merit a corresponding box.

But, then again, my pile of Auspicious Plastic Figurines From The Vending Machine never got any bigger than this:

I mean, really. Your brother puts his quarter in and gets a miniature Dora the Explorer figurine with a removable dolphin costume that also doubles as a Christmas ornament, and you get a plastic Pope? That's really funny, Universe. But, still-I can't throw something like that away, because the look on her face when she pulled it out of the machine was to die for. Complete confusion. It might have been a teachable moment wherein I explained how these are naughty machines that take your money, and wouldn't we have been much smarter/happier/well-off if we'd just saved our coins for a more sure thing....but, alas, I must've lost my June Cleaver brain somewhere along the way. Maybe in move number three, or was it five? Because what I told my daughter is this: you know, sometimes you think you're getting a press-on tattoo, and you end up with a weird old guy in a dress. It's not what you expected, but still--be happy. You might end up liking it.

That night, when I went in to check on her, I found the Pope, in his plastic dome, resting quietly next to her cheek-- like the boy in the bubble. I bent down to kiss her like I always do, and thought how she'd really taken to heart what I'd said earlier. She had, literally, placed her disappointment on her pillow. It was her closest companion. I wondered, if like me, she was waiting for more to be revealed? If, as the sky turned purple and the first stars came out, she lay awake imagining the ways this almost-treasure, this sort-of-letdown...could manifest as something truly wonderful?

Then, the next day, I found the Pope in the dolphin suit. Apparently, he works at Sea World and is very happy there, enjoying a comprehensive and competitive health care package as well as discounted admission to many other parks in the Anheuser-Busch family entertainment subsidiary.

But really...this is not what we expected. And yet, we're learning to adapt-and apparently, so are the children. Who knew? Still, my hope (prayer) is this: that wherever we end up, I like it. Should something in Elsewhere cause me discontent, however, could I please just grow in patience? I'd like to think I'm the kind of girl who'd share a bed with restlessness, but in truth, I'm more the type who, at the first trace of mental upset, hightails it to the Quik Trip for a pound of peanut butter M&M's. Perhaps the Sitting-With-Anxiety level of maturity manifests in Move # 11 or 12? If it comes with a bombshell bikini body, I guess I'm willing to wait.

But-- please don't ask me to move after that.


p.s. Dora sends a silent scream from inside the bubble. She's absolutely beside herself without that talking monkey.


The Life of Blights said...

oh my word. I am laughing so hard right now. I love your writing. Hilarious. I can sooo relate. We are packing as well. Move #15 I think? I quit counting after 10. I won't squelch your hopes of what accompanies moves #11 and beyond. But I can tell you that packing the "minutia" always makes me panicky & overwhelmed.

jen said...

sometimes the signs are right there arent they? that's the kind i know i need. loved reading this post. so much fun to read, even in a time that is not so much fun for you. it'll be more fun looking back on it someday ;)

Deborah said...

So, does this mean I should kick-start the guest room and that you've finally, finally accepted our offer to be your life-long roommates?? Yippee! What you call a bummer of a move I call My Lucky Day.

For reals: if you need it, call me and I'll get it for you. No matter what it is. I know a guy.

michael moebes said...

we want to move, not that such a desire makes the process any more fun. so, maybe you can smile in your ability to achieve, on accident, what many strive to achieve!