My stress level has been high lately as Michael is not yet back to school and we are amidst a big life altering situation...
We are moving in a mere three months.
I sit anxiously on the top step of the staircase overlooking our foyer. It is a habit of mine that I usually exhibit when I am exhausted or when I need a minute to take inventory of the house including but not limited to the boys' antics, the heights of the mounds of laundry, the easiest method to clean up the disaster of toys that a toddler tornado has brought to my first floor, or even contemplating which sounds best tonight... red or white? My seat on the penthouse of my foyer stairs grounds me, if anything for a minute.
In my stalled moment, almost nearing the witching hour of dinner, but tucked nicely before the frenzy of the last of the day's CF treatments, I gaze out the massive window out the front of the foyer. The sun is lazing west and the sky is clear with light, wispy clouds enjoying the view from above. Michael approaches my sanctuary and sits on the step in front of me. He shifts his weight carefully to lean on my knee with his arm.
I gently start in with my pep talk even though I am hesitant. Frankly, it is really more for me than for him. We both know it. "Michael, you know Mommy and Daddy are going to be gone the next two sleeps (translation: nights), right? Papa and Nonna are going to watch you. You need to be good and listen to what they tell you to do. And Uncle will take you to soccer tomorrow morning. Are you going to play this week?" He looks at me and rolls his eyes. Seriously, this kid is four going on fourteen. I start in again, "I know you didn't want to play last week, but it's lots of fun. You are so good, honey, and you'll make new friends."
Michael shrugs his little shoulders and bobs his head annoyed as he quickly responds treading over my words, "Yeah, yeah, mom. Alright. I got it. I got it." His sweet voice hints irritation. I smile, which he doesn't notice as he is kicking his foot looking at the ground. There is a comfortable pause. I usually insert this next phrase every time I have the waking chance. I say, "I love you, Michael." He replies, "I love you too." He stands up as if he has important matters to which to attend, then he stamps a thoughtful kiss on my forehead. He trots off.
I have been anxious in recent days while anticipating leaving them for two days, as my husband and I begin to search for our home in New Jersey. Yes, my already disheveled world is about to get even more upended in a couple months with a move to mid-state New Jersey.
My head has been spinning for some time as I gather what a move for two years in another state means for our family. Phrases like "great opportunity", "shorter commute", and "life adventure" have all become commonplace in conversations with my husband lately. However, it's the other phrases that I am burying and hiding away. At some point soon, I will send an expert crew on an expedition digging for phrases like "new pulmonologist", "rental property", and "no family locally" since these are considerably more difficult to process.
The rays of sun are flooding in the picture windows of the historic and updated hotel where we are staying. The crimson red on the walls is dotted with renderings of old English hunting dogs and equestrians. The images add a hue of sophistication around the cliche buffet breakfast bar. The crisp white crown molding and window frames outline perfect lines running against the red walls. The contrast almost hurts my eyes. Or maybe it's just my head that hurts. I can't quite tell through my scattered morning confusion.
I am not prepared for this. It was not in the plans... re-touring homes that we had dismissed on the first pass. How will anything feel like home if it didn't feel like the "right" place the first go around? My heart is heavy. My emotions are drawn all over my face as I quietly pout at my breakfast plate. I move scrambled egg around a circle on my plate.
I lift my eyes to stare at my husbands white porcelain coffee cup. The cup of joe swirls and steams with unpredictability and defiance. The steam hovers, sways and redirects. It makes its own path. The longer I watch, the more uneasy I become. My journey is most certainly like the coffee's breath, the twists and the turns. I have definitely been there before...
I pick myself up from my seat, and we head to the lobby to meet the Realtor for round 2.
The thought of uprooting our lives is overwhelming. I am exhausted and excited. I am also good with it, after all I had agreed long ago to go for the ride. We climb into the Realtor's car and we are quiet. The hum of the hills and terrain of suburban New Jersey beneath the car. We arrive in the driveway of the first home we visited yesterday. It is bright and airy. I inhale and the cool April air. I slowly breathe out and pick my feet up to force myself up out of the car door. When we enter the house the Realtor calls around to make sure the property's current tenants have left. All clear.
As I pace around, I begin to realize this is just fine. I momentarily disarm my snooty attitude and realize this would be a fine home. Actually this is a really nice home. A massive patio for dinner on warm summer evenings and large yard for the dog and the boys. A newer kitchen with plenty of counter space not only for eating but also for our nightly ritual of washing and sterilizing nebulizers. A pleasant comfortable family room.
I start calculating. The armiore can go there... We'll need some furniture to go there... An area rug there, there, and there so the crazy dog doesn't damage the hardwood flooring. Then I realize that I cant quite envision where the boys will do their CF treatments. We'll need to do some thinking about where we can arrange for their vest machines and compressors. I skip over this and keep looking. We head upstairs and peruse the bedrooms. I'll want to paint the bedrooms...
My mind starts to loosen. My nerves are no longer taut. I begin to envision our family's days ahead. Finally, we head into the finished basement to inspect and digest that space as well. As we head back through a door to the washer and dryer, in the dimly lit small room, I see a bed at the back and someone rustling around in the sheets. I am startled and confused and immediately signal with wordless code to the Realtor and my husband that someone is here and asleep. Well, possibly no longer asleep. I hurriedly return the other direction. We realize that we have woken the nanny and she hadn't heard us call around the house when we arrived for the tour. Somehow this doesn't feel like the best omen ever, but I can say that there might have been many other omens that could be far worse. We all awkwardly hurry out of the property. Wishing I had more time, we scatter and shift on to the next property, but my mind is pretty much made up. The thrill of a new journey swells inside my heart. Within an hour we are back in the lobby of the comfort of the hotel signing the lease with our future landlord.
Days later, stressed out and overwhelmed I start crying. I plop on the couch and start weeping. Mikey leans over me and peers at my eyes. He cradles my head and says, "It's okay, mommy." I am having the first crashing wave in my emotional ocean of moving.
My husband and I grew up in the area where we live. We were high school sweethearts here. Our family is here. Our home, our life, Michael's adorable little school are here. Memories on every corner are here. My childhood home is here. And we are moving away. Not just down the street or across the way, but we are moving 789 miles away. Not that anyone is counting.
Dylan spies me on the couch. He realizes my sadness, beelines toward me, and plops on my chest. He watches over me and reassures me, "You okay mommy, you okay." Dylan keeps peering over my face directly and examines me closely. Then suddenly he hops off and runs away. In my alarm that this child is not damaging something or finding danger, I am also in pure wonderment of where he could have gone. My eyes continue to tear and I try to calm down.
Dylan scurries back in the room and climb back and sits squarely again on my chest. He had gone to get a tissue that he starts to dab at my eyes. "I need to wipe you." Clearly, these are my own words uttered now from my two year old who is now tending to me. I laugh out loud thinking of all the times I have chased this little boy through our home saying, "I need to wipe you." He sloppily rubs my nose, assuming I have a runny nose like he always does when he cries. His logic is sweet. Mommy wipes my nose and tears when I cry, so I will wipe hers. But he is careful and thoughtful. I would've never imagined that he would think to care for me while I am so upset since he generally toddles around and tees off anything he can find in the house with his best golf swing. All along I assumed this child was oblivious or too involved in his own exploration of the world. He dabs as gently as a tough guy two year old can.
I steady my brain. I work to reverse my thoughts and my emotions. I stop sniffing, I wipe the tears, and I hug each Michael and Dylan for their affection. I slowly breathe in and pick my feet up to force myself up off the couch. It is now that I surrender and wait for the moments and miracles ahead. I know my two sensitive little boys are by my side holding my hand every step of the way. The roles are simply reversed. It is apparent how much I need these sweet tots.
Like it or not, New Jersey, here we come.
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