Faith or fear?

We're in New Orleans. I've been on four interviews and have another today. We've found the neighborhoods of our dreams, but not the house of our dreams. We found a house that's great--for a grandma--and we may make it work. We visited Sumner's (hopefully) future school and we've had boiled crawfish and a soft shell crab po-boy. We're packing it in.

Despite the fact that we are moving to a hurricane ravaged city, I am doing just fine. Mainly I am excited for life down here. The pace is not hurried or harried (while the people are somewhat harried right now, it doesn't force them to move too fast and rush). There are neighborhoods that are friendly and stores and resturants are right smack dap in the middle of residential blocks. We love it. The people are so friendly (I repeat myself). We've been trolling the neighborhoods trying to find houses for sale. One woman we met, who does not have a vested interest in real estate, told us she's give us tips if she hears of anyone selling before the house hits the market. Another two people who happen to be hanging out on the street referred us to homes of people who might be selling. So New Orleans will be a great home.

But we don't have a home and I don't have a job and the kids school is still up in the air.

I have moments when I am really scared.

I told Rick, my father-in-law, that I was right between fear and faith. He said, "Isn't that where we all live?" So true, so true.

Oh, the shame of it!

It is simply shameful how long it has been since I have written in my blog. I was always worried that "living neat" (my last entry on March 14) would cramp my style a bit and it has/is.

Apparently my cousin Amy, a blog reader, and my mom were visiting this weekend in Iowa and griping about how many days it has been since my last blog. They want to know the colors of my everyday...and I want to paint them. That was a wake up call. Back to the old keyboard.

I have a lot of topics, scribbled onto receipts and inside my datebook and even on my hand, but I just haven't had the energy to write. So, I peck away and finally flesh out these topics--things that happened or occurred since March 14, my last entry. I am going to try to fill in the blank two weeks.

Why fly when you can walk?

I have seen it happen so many times before to Phil. I anticipate. To the max. I imagine and imagine and worry a bit and picture what life will be like during and after a big change. It hits Phil when it happens. Ramona has asked a lot of questions over the last months. She doesn't just want to know if her bunk bed will be in New Orleans, she wants to know how it will fit out of the house and make its way down here.

The other day we went to the magnet school we hope that Sumner "gets into". It met all of Phil and my's expectations and then some. We thought he was impressed, if overwhelmed a bit.

That night, as Sumner was falling asleep, he had a lot of tears. "Mom, you ruined my day. You made me turn off the TV in the morning. And you wouldn't let me play on the computer later and how will the kids at that new school know me?" It went something like that. Many more tears and questions followed. For instance: How will I know the rules of that school? Why are we moving?

We talked to him for a long time. We told him that we made this decision because we felt that it would be best for our family in the long run. We also acknowledged that it will be really hard and really sad. We told him he'd make friends and we'd help with that. They'd make the rules clear to him. We sang, "Make New Friends and Keep the Old". We even told him that we could fly back to Boston and visit all of our friends when we wanted.

He told us just what he thought about these things:

Moving is not what is best for him. And why fly [to visit your friends] when you can walk?

Living Neat

This was actually part of our dinner conversation tonight:

Me (Recounting my daily events.): After breakfast, Ramona helped me tidy up the house. She learned how to make a bed and then...

Sumner (Annoyed and bubbling over with jealousy, near tears.): How come I don't know how to make a bed? I want to know how to make a bed!

I thought that not knowing how to make a bed equals liberation. For Sumner it was exclusion.

For all of my parents' over-neat and generally pathological and overbearing housekeeping habits, bed making was not one of the things they harped on. I do know how to make a bed very skillfully and I can remember standing on the opposite side of many beds from my mom while she instructed me about how to get it right, yet these memories are warm ones. I liked making beds and I didn't HAVE to do it if I didn't want to.

Apparently my grandmother Rhoda made my dad make his bed everyday and so the day he left home he stopped making his bed.

I think generally my mom only makes my parents' bed for show. When guests come over, she fluffs everything up (just so) and tucks hospital corners (just so) before piling a tower of pillows on her bed (just so). But most days my mom just doesn't see the point. She's really into airing things out--not one corner or cranny of her house is stuffy. So most days she throws the comforter back and airs the bed out to keep it fresh.

Getting our house ready to "show" in the hopes of finding a buyer has been a grueling process, and living in a neat (nearly sterile) house is just not me. I like clean. I really like organization. I don’t like blank, boring neatness. Yesterday when I was making the beds I realized that before we were in the business of "showing" our house it never, ever crossed my mind that I might want to make our bed or our children's beds as part of my morning routine. That made me chuckle. I also realized that the only time we do make the beds is when we change the sheets or when VIP guests are coming by or when Phil is preparing to make the beds neat and safe for the kids and him to wrestle.

I like made beds, but I really just don't see the point.

We May

It is becoming an increasing possibility that we may move in May. That’s in like 60 days. That’s pretty sad.

I know that I should be worrying about selling my house, buying another, finding a job, finding schools for the kids, hiring a moving company, planning flights and drives and graduation, and setting up shop in a new city that was ravaged by a hurricane seven months ago. Thankfully I’m not worried today.

My secret is thankfulness. I heard this sermon last week that emphasized being thankful for what we have and where we are today. For about two weeks before I heard that sermon I had been fretting. A pathetic worry-wart. Panicking pathetically everyday. Then I started to count my blessings. It seems so simple and it is working.

I am sad and I get choked up a few more times a day then usual, but I know that I have been blessed by our four years here and there’s so much more for us in the next several years in New Orleans.

As I often say, “Praise God and thank you Jesus.”

Ramona on Moving

Our friend Julie: Ramona, are you excited to move to New Orleans?

Ramona: Yes.

Julie: What are you excited about?

Ramona: To learn French.

Julie: Really? Why do you want to learn French?

Ramona: Because it is fancy.

Later, she and I were watching TV show in which a little girl's friend was moving to Hong Kong.

Ramona: Kate is going to be so sad when I move. She is going to be so sad that God is taking me away from her.

Baby Slinger

This morning Phil delivered Ramona to our bed at about six. She was having a little asthma and I gave her a breathing treatment and waited to see if she was well enough to go to school. We lay there halfway between sleeping and waking, as I counted her breaths per minute and the seconds between coughs. Sumner bounded in about 45 minutes later, wanting to wrestle and cuddle in a rather active manner. We wanted to lay stillish. I asked him to stop, be quieter, relax, cuddle gently, but he wanted to tickle my armpits and dive under the covers. I got rather snappy with him.

Finally, we all got up and went about getting ready for school. I began making my cup of tea and oatmeal. Although Sumner ate an apple and yogurt at 5:20 and then more yogurt at 6:30, he was suddenly ravenous. Yet he needed to get his socks on, take his medicine, brush his teeth, and bundle up for school. He whined and stomped and didn’t cooperate. I think it was more about the snappy mother than an empty belly. I handed him a re-warmed leftover pancake as he walked out the door with Phil.

Then Ramona was hungry. Although my tea was getting cold, I cut up some fruit for her and scooped up some yogurt. Finally I sat down to eat my cold oatmeal and lukewarm tea and scan the paper.

And then the talking began. Oh, Ramona has a lot to say in the morning. Champion Chatterbox is the nickname she inherited from me. My mom says I used to chatter in the morning. There was lots of "Did you know that my teacher is actually a mommy?" and "When we move to New Orleans I am going to wear bows in my hair." I had to ask her to "just be quiet for a few minutes.” Again, I was rather snappy. For God's sake, I hadn't even been able to finish my tea.

Phil came back from dropping Sumner at the bus stop and immediately noticed how snappish I was. I tried to conceal it, but it seeped through. I was wishing that caretaking/parenting/ family/ relationships could be simpler. My house is organized now, so why can't the family fall in line? We have schedules, routines, rules, and expectations, so why can't I get a hot cup of tea?

While Phil was easing me out of snappy with some gentle teasing and the tea began to do its de-grouching work, Ramona wondered into her bedroom. She was talking, a lot. A few minutes later, as I was kissing Phil good-bye, I peaked in at her through the crack between her open door and the door jam. Here was a future-woman-mom (who may also be a teacher) who had it figured out. She had fashioned out of pop beads a baby holster and placed two babies on one side and one on the other. This allowed her the freedom to talk to them while she brushed her hair and sorted through her barrettes. I am sure she could also drink a cup of hot tea and make her family operate on remote control.

That's what I need: a baby holster. But I don't have babies any more, they're kids. So I guess I'd settle for a couple of horse poles that I could crosstie them to when I need some peace and quiet. Or a mute button. A mute button could be a good thing.

For Sale

We're really doing it. The house is on the market. Yikes. Our house reduced to catalogish shots:

Willie and Monie

I was playing a little slow Willie Nelson for Sumner last night.

"I don't like this song, Mom," Sumner flatly told me.

"This guy is friends with Johnny Cash. You'll like him," I tried to convince, certain that I could get him on my side. I moved on to the next slow song.

"Nope, I don't like this one." I skipped to the next one, another slow song, "Mom, I just don't like his voice. It is like sorrow."

I quickly found Whiskey River. Sumner just smiled and started dancing.

________________________________________

Monie, Ramona, Smooshy Small pants--that's Ramona. Today she moved to New Orleans. She got five other children at her school to move all of the toys from the toy kitchen, costumes from their wall, dolls from their bin, and hundreds of toys from block room to one small area for her move. Everything was in bins and boxes stacked on top of everything. She was getting it organized for a move. First she was going to Iowa and California for a visit and then New Orleans.

When I arrived the teacher told me, "Sumner and Ramona are going to be fine [with the move]. You and Phil are the ones who are going to have a hard time."

How right she is. Moving is so fun and so sad.

Goof Off

Today I got a panicked call from Phil, "Where is the Goof Off? I can't find it." He was agitated.

"I dunno, I think we used it all. I haven't seen it.” Tired of his home improvement impatience, which has been frequent this week, I retorted, “What do you need it for anyway?"

"You don't want to know."

Apparently, about 10 minutes before this phone call, Phil stepped out to take some garbage to the curb. During the few moments that Phil was out, Sumner found two glue traps for our furry neighbors. They looked so gooey and shiny; he put his hand in one. It wasn't easy to get his hand out, but he managed to free it. This lead him to decide to step into not one, but two mouse traps--just to see what it felt like. Then Sumner realized that his hand was quite sticky and it wouldn't wipe off, so he started to skate on the mouse traps on the kitchen floor towards the bathroom to wash his hands. Skating was fun. At that moment, Phil opened the front door.

"You've got to be kidding me Sumner," Phil said.

A bath and a food rub with some sort of citrus adhesive removal and Sumner smelled like oranges and was very clean.

Number of mice trapped this year: zero. Number of seven year olds: one.

A Ray of Light

Today was just a bad day.

Transition sucks. There are too many things to do. Normal life has been moving at a comfortable pace and I don't like having to speed up. I haven't been my best self over the last few days. I have to host a birthday party this weekend, host a workshop at Sumner's school, parent help at the Coop tomorrow, feed my family, respond to emails, sleep, eat, and do every home improvement project that I wished I had done over the last four years in five days. I have become surly, mean, bossy. Phil hasn't been a gentleman all the time either. Sumner's waking up before five o'clock. Today we had some annoying interactions with people we have to deal with here and Boston. Will the condo sell? Will I find a job a like that pays me well enough (whatever that means)? Will I get to be with my children enough with the job I find? I can't remember the last shower I had. Needless to say, by the time the kids were in bed, I was pooped. Phil and I both were low.

Then I got a call. From Marshall, Phil's high school buddy, who lives in New Orleans. He is in Boston for the night. Forty minutes later Phil was making Marshall a French Dip sandwich and a salad and he was telling us tales from his Fat Tuesday, which was just yesterday, in New Orleans. Early morning costume assembly, the inside scoop on property and neighborhoods, retelling old stories, talking about the realities of rebuilding. Ahhh, it was good. We had to stop and sit and talk and listen. Forget the boxes. They'll be done. Don't sweat the spackle--there's tomorrow. And the birthday party--it'll be a smash hit. No worries. It's all good.

So I sit and blog. A pleasure that I have been neglecting. It's all good.