Moving Intervention

On Tuesday, two movers came to my house to pack, load, and ship all of our stuff. When I was a nanny in college I got to watch this in action when the family I worked for moved to France, but I think my movers were a little bit different. First of all, to protect the names of the innocent, we will label these two capable men Brain and Brawn.

Brain had very good people skills. As I watched him carefully wrap my dishes and family photos, he talked with me about his own kids and his busy life. He may have thrown in there once or twice how disappointing his life has turned out to be and though I was tempted to give him a tissue, I wanted the job done so I could move on.

Brawn took more smoke breaks than I think is humanly possible in one day and spent most of his time inside the air conditioned house on his cell phone. He wasn’t so cautious about my worldly goods. After three hours of this hard labor (I sat at my kitchen table drinking lemonade and doing a crossword) the boys looked tired. I asked if I could feed them anything or if they needed a lunch break. They agreed it was a good idea and they headed across the street for some eats. Had I known this would cut their stamina in half, I never would have suggested it.

They returned sluggish and cranky. If my kids had been home with me, we would have had nap time, but I farmed them out so the movers wouldn’t trip on anybody. The movers definitely needed a nap.

This is when it began to get ugly. The sun climbed higher and higher and made the whole situation hotter. It was when Brain started taking inventory that he realized Brawn was packing our air shipment in one HUGE 15 cubic-square-foot box. This included appliances, bedding, food, etc. He didn’t make any distinction, just tossed it in. Brain had explained to me earlier that if something turns out wrong and I make a claim, the company doesn’t pay it----these two professionals do. I’m pretty sure when Brain saw Brawn’s packing job, actual steam came out of his ears. This made his face go red for the rest of the afternoon. There were some under-the-breath curse words exchanged and Brain went out to the truck while Brawn finished the job.

The job got done. I won’t know for two months whether it was done well or not. I thought about sitting down with them and working it out, but hey----I’ve got my own problems.

Pack Mule in a Pretty Dress

All six of us were in a family wedding this weekend. It was special to be a part of the of the bridal party. I’ve had enough experience preparing my family for day-long events to know that you always plan for the inevitable. Adding to it a child who had been vomiting all week, the preparations were extensive.

I began putting things in my SUV early in the morning, adding whatever I saw fit. It didn’t really seem like that much at the time; Two tuxedos, two flower girl dresses, two bridesmaid dresses, everyone’s shoes, make-up, clothes for later, lint roller, hairspray, curly hair spray…okay, that’s just the beginning.

My mom came with me to the hotel to help get everyone ready whilst my beloved was gallivanting with his brother for one last time as a bachelor. She was gracious. Wiping faces when needed and getting the kids distracted with Kung Fu Panda on cable. I don’t think my sister-in-law imagined that she’d be watching Kung Fu Panda in her bridal suite on her wedding day, but I guess that’s what you get when kids are involved.

I opted to take off my glasses for the day---a choice made primarily because I still feel like a nerd in them, and also because the extreme heat made my nose sweat. Now you need to know that they don’t make contact lenses for me because my prescription is too thick. Walking without my glasses is typically a challenge, so walking in heels, a fancy dress-----practically unprecedented.

So I exited the building, one of the area’s most premiere hotels, and took to the street with my four kids, a stroller, five bags, a mother, and enough food to get them all through the day. I actually got checked out (not discreetly) by two guys at the stop light. I was torn between slapping them for considering me and blowing a kiss. I felt proud of the roles I was able to simultaneously conquer. That of pack mule and bridesmaid.

Lawnmowers and Eyebrows

As I ponder the thought of disregarding lawn work for up to four years, it makes me feel an edenic peace. Don’t get me wrong, I like my lawn to match the height of my neighbors, which honestly is the only thing that keeps me mowing it. I used to sweat and labor over keeping mine shortest first so the neighbors had to keep up with me, but that ship has sailed. We all agreed this summer we would mow once a week. I may even be stretching it to once every ten days.

When I was a kid, I never mowed the lawn. There were certain people in my family who commandeered the task and I was happy to avoid it. But when hubby started working overtime and the kids got older, I had no excuse to avoid it any longer. That thing is more temperamental than a woman…well you know. I get all suited up, ipod in pocket, nasty shoes on, and the darn thing won’t start for me. Of course when I lament to my husband later that evening, he sighs at me, walks outside, and starts it with one pull.

I’m the one who insisted we have a push mower. “It’ll be my fitness-for-life plan” I said. I figured with shoveling in the winter and mowing in the summer, I could stay lean and trim practically forever.

Which also leads me to consider eyebrow waxing and who came up with that? Am I simply keeping up with the Joneses with the length of my furry brows? Maybe we should leave it all as God intended. Or maybe not.

The UN in UNsolicited

When you tell people you are moving to a foreign country, it is somewhat similar to being eight months pregnant. They look at you like you’re best friends and then it happens….unsolicited comments. Being that I had the privilege of being eight months pregnant four times, I remember the lack of respect for one’s physical space and/or capability as a human being.

It goes like this; “Kids are expensive.” Really, I had no idea. I thought they came out of an egg made of money that paid for them. Bummer. Too late now.

Or, “You’re so young.” How would they like it if I told them they were so old?
Or my personal favorite;”You sure have your hands full.” It seems that this comment usually comes from a complete stranger in a super-market where in fact, I have a cart full.

So it goes when people hear you’re moving across the world.

“It’s cold there.” Oh, man! I just bought a bikini because I thought it was on the equator. I haven’t even checked a map or the weather patterns to see where I am taking my whole family. Really? Is that the best you’ve got?

“How are you planning to get there?” By boat, of course. Air travel is so bothersome and slow.

“What are you going to do with the children?” Spread them out among family members and leave them here. No, honestly though, they’re coming with us. I thought that was natural, but maybe not.

Forgive my sarcasm. Someday I know I will be older and wiser and will come across those who haven’t seen my life experiences. And when I do, and they inform me of their adventures in life, I will kindly smile and say “good luck with that.”

Only the beginning

Today is the first day of summer break. I can tell it’s going to be a good one. Number 3 descended the steps this morning with a new hairstyle; let me clarify, a new self-inflicted haircut.

This use to be an everyday occurrence, but from the girl who has finally grown it out long enough to French braid, it came as a shocker. More so because she is the flower girl in a family wedding in a few weeks.

And so I’ve reminded myself these small people, who look like me, are no longer in the hands of capable educators; they are in my hands. It’s ironic that I have been warning this child that if she continues to chew on her hair, I will cut it all off. Maybe she was saving me the trouble?

Unfortunately, when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, the punishment was made. I didn’t have to give coarse words or any discipline because the reflection she saw was horror enough. I feel the same way sometimes. I would rather have somebody slap my wrists than make me deal with the physical consequence of my errors.

Be that as it may, I am optimistic that this little one desperately needs my care. Homeschooling her will the challenge of the century. But before that, we have many more summer days.

Stinky Situation

As Memorial Day was on Monday, my usually scheduled trash pick-up was running one day late. This is no big deal really. We recycle so much that we only actually put about two kitchen-size trash bags in each week. However, we had a yard sale this weekend and after a yard sale, one is able to evaluate what is actually worth something and what is in fact----trash.

Last night, I noticed my overly full trash can was still at the end of the road. My prompt and efficient neighbors had already pulled their cans back up to their houses. Someone must be in the wrong.

I called the trash company this morning and to my surprise and alarm, they didn’t pick up because I simply didn’t pay the bill. After all, how would I pay the bill when it never came? This problem can be traced back to the fact that we use to have a PO BOX and the post office is located not 75 feet from my house, but they refused to deliver to me because it was not, and I quote “on their route.” It took me three months of arguing and refusal to pay my box fee to get them to give me a mailbox down an adjacent street, which is actually farther than the post office itself. When miss-marked mail would arrive, the old post-master would simply forward it on to us.

There’s a new post-master in town.

She’s a rule follower. I know the type---I tend to be one myself. But do we really have to send mail back when there are a whopping 12 people who live on Main Street, six of them contained in my own house?
It’s bad enough that all the farmers in town are spreading and the wind keeps blowing in my windows, but this whole trash situation…well, it stinks.

Welcome

Today I started a blog. Obviously you already know that because you are reading it now. If you are family, thanks for your support. If you aren’t, I hope you are amused, inspired, and intrigued by the daily life of a 28 year old woman, mother to four children, ages 3,5,7,& 8, with a husband to whom I often refer as “Tigger” (think…whoo-hooo-hooo-oooo, fun all the time).

We are moving to Russia. The sub title of the blog is a Russian proverb but also an intrinsic part of my life.

From here on after, I will refer to my kids as 1, 2, 3, and 4. I can barely remember the names I gave them and for those of you who know them, you will be able to connect the dots. Everyone else will have to determine for themselves the personalities of these little people who change my life daily. Sometimes I am an active participant. Other times, I feel like being sent to prison could be a good time.

Anyway, it's taken me months to get this far, so enjoy what I manage to create.