Diary of a move, 4

I needed to go to the 2nd District Police Station today to print the moving van parking permits I'd applied for online earlier this week. My confirmation said to simply go to the station and use the lobby kiosk to do so.

I hadn't been to this station since Jack's 5th birthday. He was heavily into law enforcement at that time and in addition to a police- and crime-themed scavenger hunt birthday party (complete with badges, rear view sunglasses and walkie-talkies), he wanted to suit up in his police outfit and visit our district's police. 

Bemusedly, we obliged, and costumed Jack dragging Oliver into the station by his tiny, two-year-old hand remains one of my favorite pictures. 

Back then, the front doors just opened; you didn't have to be buzzed in or show ID or anything. So today, when I got there, dressed cutely in workout pants and my Patagonia puff jacket, I yanked on that door with such confidence that it would open that I nearly fell over when it most definitely did not. An officer standing outside, talking on her cell phone, called over. "You have to press the button on the right of the door."

"Thank you," I said, as I noticed a sign saying the very same thing hanging high in the upper left corner of one door. 

I pressed the button but nothing happened, and finally, the chatting officer took pity on me and came over to buzz me in.

Because I am an instructions follower and because my instructions clearly said to use the kiosk in the lobby, I walked to the kiosk in the lobby. I started tapping on the screen but didn't see any information except that related to sex offense. 

A gangly man was weaving in circles throughout the lobby, screaming the f-bomb in an exceedingly jovial manner. Another man lounged at the front desk, talking to the female officer behind the thick glass. She had a fountain of brown and pink braids and did not seem to mind the cussing beanstalk in her lobby.

"Excuse me, ma'am, are you a registered sex offender?" boomed a woman's voice. "Are you a registered sex offender?" she repeated. It occurred to me that she must be asking ME. 

I looked at her and said, "No ma'am," and she replied, "Because that is the kiosk for registered sex offenders. Are you a sex offender?"

"No ma'am, I'm just trying to print parking permits."

"Well, you need to sit at that desk over there!"

Cussing beanstalk was laughing his ass off at this point, still cussing and weaving. Lounging man was definitely chuckling under his breath, and I was still focused on not being a sex offender but also wondering why the permit station was an old computer on a desk and not a freaking kiosk.

I went to Crate & Barrel after leaving and  called one of my best friends to regale her with the experience. We cackled so loudly I had to hide in a corner behind a recliner.

People, this story cracks my business up. I am still laughing and this happened three hours ago. Can you even imagine what all those people said when I left. It's too hysterical to even consider. At least I have my permits.

When life is like a jello mold

I awoke at 4:45 this morning, thinking about something or another related to our move. Probably the utterly first-world but nonetheless vexing problem of The Perfect Kitchen Table. Truthfully, you don't know how hard it can be to find The One.

I left my sweet husband snoring soundly and relocated to the basement bed so as not to bother him. In the dim glow of my phone's screen with my little cat purring alongside my thigh, I searched for tables until the boys came to "wake me."

The kids' school posted another two-hour delayed start, so we had a play date and then I dropped off all the munchkins before racing home to welcome the termite inspector, receive a delivery, confirm our moving contract, yada, yada, yada. 

These last few weeks I've felt as if I live in a surreal jello mold--translucent but still hazy with visual obstructions peppered throughout, wobbly, somewhat soundproof. It's hard to orient: what day is and does it really matter? What time do we have to be where? Is there homework or not? No, I don't know why you had "gross chicken with blood" for school lunch. I still don't understand what the chicken with blood was all about but the boys were emphatically repulsed. I laughed.

This jello mold sensation is one I've experienced before, during times of serious flux when I become unmoored in some way. It reminds me how much I appreciate and thrive on structure, even structured times for spontaneity. I know how that sounds, but it's me. It works for me.

It works for the kids too. They have been so wonky these last few days: no school, delays, school, staying up late, eating more pizza than usual. It does a number on them. I can see it in quicker tempers and tears, in inane bickering and tottering klutziness that are always a tell-tale sign of fatigue.

I look for ways to plant a flag and hold us steady. And that, my friends, is the reason for my Perfect Kitchen Table fixation. The reason I've stayed organized with the myriad to-dos for our move. The reason I insisted we start Valentine's making in advance because 51 cards take some time, and time we have had.

On the way home from school this afternoon, we drove by our new house, and despite the ugly mountains of dirty snow and the brown foliage peeking out from behind them, the sky shone blue and we looked at what will soon be home with giant smiles of excitement and promise.

There, I imagine (new table or not), the wobble will still. At least for a while.

Farewell letter to All The Snow

Dear All The Snow,

You may leave now. You're crimping my gutters and pulling boards off AROMO and canceling and/or delaying school and making things die and ripping my Dish off the exterior wall of my home and being generally annoying. You've started melting so the kids' don't even want to play in you anymore.

Please do not come back until 2017 at the earliest. Or, if you do, go to a city that better handles your existence and removal.

Thank you,

Tired and Busy Mom Who Can Play No More Board Games