We spent the weekend celebrating Labor Day by laboring.
Moving is, I am convinced, one of those megalithic tasks originally entrusted to one of the Titans, designed to prove deity or rescue a grieving maiden from the jaws of the underworld.
RESCUE THIS MAIDEN.
The house we’re in now is this lovely old rattling thing, squeaky wooden floors shiny with the patina of the ages. The kids now have their own rooms and R and I rejoice in the echo we hear when we talk on the phone to each other. The ceilings are tall, the windows wide. There’s a yard (small but perfect for the kids) and it’s close to the university, which makes my commute nonexistent. They actually laughed at me in my department when I mentioned leaving half an hour early for school.
But the BOXES.
They multiply in the night, I am convinced. They break out the Yaeger shots and get freaky in the hallways, producing myriads more like them.
In the mornings we work slowly through each one, wondering who packed them, these boxes with baby socks, computer cables, and the odd box of cereal.
So yes, I’m fairly uncoordinated right now. I had to ask for the copier code four times this morning, each time forgetting it by the time I reached the mail room, finally giving up and tossing the page to a student worker. Pass the buck, my friends.
I know it gets easier as we get more settled. My brave girl is safely ensconced in her Kindergarden, and the baby is getting great one-on-one time with R. I know everyone is not so fortunate, to have a job and a roof and baby socks when needed.
I just sometimes wish there were a few less boxes.