Diary of a move, 6: A sick child in the mix, aka How Odd Squad makes a day go by, and Why emojis and hashtags are awesome

Alright y'all. Last night, I went to the State of the School being hosted by the head of school and the Parents Association. It constituted the social highlight of my past two weeks if you don't count my visit to the 2nd District police station or the meeting with various folks associated with readying my home for the wilds of the DC market. 

I came home so happy to watch Downton with T and then dive into bed. The snow days and packing and sick Ol and a shocking trip to the gym had conspired to make me seriously exhausted, and eager beaver is a vast understatement when considering just how to describe my mindset about bedtime last night.

Surely you know where this is headed. Naturally it involves a profound lack sleep, holding my darling boy as he booted responsibly into the toilet, cuddling his feverish-with-chills body until he was able to sleep, Percy barking and then peeing, Nutmeg mewing and then puking, and finally, finding an insane looking Jack pretending to do math at the kitchen table at 5:55am.

Do not even think I believed his protestations, y'all. I am certain he was not actually attempting to do his homework but rather planning to collect his daily gold ration in Clash of Clans or whatever. #momsalwaysknow

Ol stayed home again today, and I admit that I let him watch approximately nine hours of Odd Squad. His brains are probably oozing from his ears right now as he sleeps. I'm likely to find a brain-crusted pillow tomorrow morning (or, who am I kidding, later tonight when that bitchy fever wakes him) because I just decided to let.it.go. 

My little bug felt like such crap today, and I really did need to paint the powder room and clean the yard so there you have it. He did learn to count by 3s. #winning #momofyear

I admit to being wholly gaga right now. The room is spinning and I've only had one, much-deserved bourbon. I'm telling y'all, February. #suckmonth

As an aside, can we talk about how much I love hashtags and emojis? It's an emphatic love, a wildly enthusiastic, unadulterated joy love. I adore words and long, flowing sentences, and gorgeous language and all that jazz. But sometimes -think cuss words versus their vanilla kin- you just need/want to make.the.point.

Like, if we were to have another snow day tomorrow, I would definitely text my friend, Annie, the revolver or bomb emoji. No words needed. The picture says everything AND makes you laugh.

If my friend, Anne, and I are gossiping about something, we will text each other a simple train emoji (or, let's be honest, about 90 train emojis, including all varieties of them), to symbolize that we are on the bullet train to hell.

If my friend, Jennie, reminds me of the one story that both nearly got us in trouble AND to this day makes us laugh until we cry, we text the tears-down-the-laughing-face emoji. 

And so forth and so on. I mean, just today with my girlfriend, Diara, I used two separate horse emojis and a heart. You cannot say what we meant in three words. Nor should you have to.

I LOVE the freaking emojis, though don't get me started on why there is not a pie emoji. WTF?!

If you cannot tell, I am beyond punchy. I am so damn tired I don't know my name. I best go get the salmon out of the oven and stop eating all the allspice- and cinnamon-roasted butternut squash before T gets home. 

Diary of a move, 5: Uncharted waters

I am approaching this move like the innate and forever student I am. Lists and spreadsheets, folders and a calendar, color-coded stickers and a definite action plan. I am excited and ready and feel like I'm definitely contributing to a smooth relocation process.

And yet I find myself in uncharted territory. These waters are unfamiliar and bumpy; I lost my sea-legs weeks ago. 

For as we draw closer to closing and moving, I struggle to articulate much of anything. My concentration is running at a seriously subpar clip, so much that I put our newspaper on hold this week because really, what's the point?

February is never my friend, even in the best of years. It's a chilly gray speedbump on the road to spring. If it weren't for Valentine's Day, it'd be a total wash of a month; thank goodness for hearts and roses and an excuse to drink pink champagne.

I'm cold, and I'm tired. I'm not sleeping well, and my GI tract is taking the brunt of various stressors. I'm sick of the old, dirty snow (except for the neat melt) and the misshapen foliage that's not weathered the white stuff's weight well. Just after we seemed to get back on track from the many snow days Snowzilla offered us, Ol caught another virus and was home sick today. It's not strep -never is- and my mother meter tells me that he'll be home for at least the next two days.

My sweet boy- he is the most darling, easiest sick child there is. But he has things to learn and friends to see, and I have my own things to do too. And both of us need sleep.

The one who never struggles with sleep.

I have sat down to write these past couple days and looked at the stark white screen and the blinking cursor that so often promise the world. And I have cowered. And frozen. And closed shop.

This is the most unfamiliar -unwelcome!- aspect of this February's chop. To want to write but to feel dry is beyond uncomfortable. It's scary and worrisome. It's as if I've been unwillingly corked, and I don't like it one bit.

I showed up here tonight with no expectations but with a determination to simply start. I don't have a tidy beginning, middle and end for you. I don't have wisdom or insight. I don't even have a laugh to share. 

If you're interested, I can tell you about easy and good chicken shawarma (made tonight) with juices that dribble down your arms. I can tell you, via Jack, that per Chinese tradition, I, born in the year of the dragon, could possibly have been a great politician (wrong), talk show host (wha? maybe.) or artist (possible).

I can tell you that a seriously feverish child will scare the pants off the most sanguine of us and that it's extremely hard to see your spouse stressed to the nines. 

I can tell you that if the Republicans have any sense, neither Donald Trump nor Ted Cruz will get the nomination and that if they don't and Trump or Cruz does, he would lose. I can tell you that's a triumph for this country; the glimmer of hope that hate won't, ultimately, prevail.

I can tell you how to organize pretty much anything, and I can tell you that even when it's uncomfortable, asking for and accepting help really is a beautiful thing. 

Maybe what these rough waters are teaching me is that sometimes, showing up is what counts.

Thank you for being here, with me and in my periodic absences. I can tell you that I'm grateful. 

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.