We are right in the middle of moving. For the first time in 16.5 years, when we left San Francisco with our beautiful 7 month old baby and headed to Southern California for the BIG Opportunity. The one that never panned out and may possibly be fodder for a book or memoire at some point. But not today. Today, is the same as the last three weeks have been. It is full of boxes and newspapers. And memories. And more paperwork than should be legal. And it is all getting packed.
Growing up an Army Brat, this is no strange deal to me. Having packed an average of every two years until I was 27, I am surprised at how soothing I actually find the process. I am almost sad we didn’t do it several times in the in-between as there is no substitute to moving when it comes to major cleaning out.
But my kids. They are not sure of this new animal “packing” and it’s partner in crime, “moving”. Resistance is starting to surface, even with the love of the new house and the adventures that it holds. Even though they go to a charter school where they will continue again in the fall. Even though many friends live closer to the new house. Even though many friends that live close to the old house have grown distant. They still cling to this old beach house as the only home they have ever known and I can see that it is hard for them to fathom that there will ever be a night at the new address that doesn’t feel like a sleepover or like we are visiting family. With colors for their new rooms picked out they seem unsure that their beds will actually go “there” and “there”.
And so during this very crazy period of upheaval, I try to remember patience. I remind myself that while I know all will be fine, they are not so sure. More treats. More friends. More movies. More breaks. Slowly but surely we are creeping forward.