Transition Fatigue...

As of a week or so ago, I have declared (this particular) Big Move complete, with eight phases total, if you count moving into the house as Phase VIII. In my mind it is not a done deal until we have the ability to clean to the point that the house doesn't look like the aftermath of a major undoing (which is exactly what it IS), but technically speaking we are done with the moving part of the Move. Also, the pictures herein depict the parts of the house that make me feel the least unsettled, although I'm posting them less for emotional reasons than for the simple fact that I didn't want to make the effort to walk upstairs & capture the messiest of the mess. But trust me, it's more peaceful this way.

Couch: check. Couch feet: NOT check.

Overall I would call this move successful in that we had few broken/missing things. The Cat Daddy would point out that some of the things they did break/lose will be a little tricky to replace, which is a valid point. On the to-do list: figure out how to match a new bench to the 30-year-old piano.

We're settled to the point that we have sheets on the beds, curtains on the showers, places to sit & watch TV & surf the interwebs, and a kitchen full of food & 'wares. This leaves the remaining task of sifting through all the things and keeping (and finding homes for them) or tossing as appropriate. This is the hardest stage to be disciplined about.

The tidiest place in the house, even with snack remnants.

This is also where Transition Fatigue sets in. Transition Fatigue is when you're not quite settled, and you're a little tired of being not quite settled, and you maybe lose perspective a little bit. Transition fatigue is different for everyone, but it could be marked by a strange devotion to rules which may or may not be enforceable, an irrational desire to control that which is not actually within one's jurisdiction, and possibly general irritability at things which are different, such as home and grocery store layouts. It evens out over time, but in the moment the Transition Fatigued soul finds it unthinkable to stock the peanut butter next to the salad dressing, and where the heck are the craisins??

Transition Fatigue also produces muscle memory issues. Some are minor, like reaching right while the silverware drawer is now to the left, and moving toward the wrong corner cabinet to get the pasta strainer. Others are more major, or at least more painful, such as moving laundry from the washer to the dryer and smacking one's face into the post that is now between the two machines.

I haven't yet found a way of getting through a transition without the fatigue, but I'm learning to talk less and put more effort into keeping myself peaceful. I take most thoughts after 8pm with a grain of salt, and I don't write blog posts until after a run (you're welcome). I keep lists in my bullet journal so I have things to check off, and I remind myself that we're working HARD and accomplishing things each day. And I tell myself peaceful things, like "it's a bigger mess because you emptied more boxes," and "their brains will be OK, even with all the screen time."

All in all we're moving right along, getting settled and ready to send the Cat Daddy back to work next week (amen and amen). It's good to remind myself that I'm not the only one going through Transition Fatigue, and I do think that within a few weeks all of us will be more settled and certain individuals will maybe be following the wearing-underpants rule a little more consistently.

I'd also like to think certain individuals will also stop strewing things about like walking tornadoes, but I'm almost certain they did that even before the move, so there's that...

Lucky Number 500...

It turns out that, if my Blogger stats are correct, this is my 500th blog post on this site.  So, happy 500th post to us all, and thanks for reading my blog!

These days we are in transition, which I feel like I write about a lot.  Probably because we do a lot of transition, and because we've been going through more than usual lately--this is move #3 in 3 years. I haven't figured out yet if I'm learning new things each time we move, or if I'm re-learning the same things and due to my mom-brain it's all just shiny and new to me each time.

At this moment we are in the extended-stay hotel until we leave for a vacation in Key West. We are (varying degrees of) beach people, so we are all very much looking forward to it. I'm pretty sure this will be the farthest south I've ever been, and even though I'm not a drinker, I'm seriously considering a mai-tai or some other adult umbrella drink to mark the occasion. After vacation we will make our way north, arriving in the wonderful Boston area during the warmest time of year, which I think is quite valuable for feeding my continuing denial of the severity of winters to come.

If there's an upside to all this moving and transition, it is that we are veritable experts at the logistics of moving and transition. We can work around moving ourselves or being moved by a company. We can plan for long-term displacement or a door-to-door excursion. With or without kids and/or pets. Seriously, I could have a reality show on HGTV where I help people organize themselves for moving, because each time I have moved I have learned something new to make it go a little smoother the next time.

The "internal" aspects of moving are a little more complex, I think. Because it is familiar, this part does go more smoothly for me these days, but I haven't yet found a way to both do it well and make it painless. In fact as you would probably guess, it seems to me part of doing transition well is letting it be painful, and feeling the feels, and all that. Sometimes I get caught off-guard though, and I get surprised by what stings.

The other day we were checking out of our house, and I took a moment for some mental snapshots. I remembered how empty it felt when we first moved in and how, after a year of placing and arranging, and filling it with the things of our lives (and vacuuming the ever-loving granola crumbs again and again), it was again packed up and emptied, looking identical to the first time we saw it.

I think it's one of the great paradoxes of life, about opening up and risking to love something/someone, but still holding it "loosely," as they say.  I don't know what it was about that house--perhaps the layout and other particulars, which I was particularly fond of--but I loved it right away, and it felt very home-ish to me almost immediately. I remember consciously allowing myself to enjoy it fully for the time we had it, even knowing it was a rental, and a short term one at that.

Still, I was surprised by how sad I felt to leave a house of under 11 months. I thought back to all our previous houses and places, and what was hard (or maybe not so much) about leaving each of them, and I decided it is hard for me to leave what the house represents. Memories, yes. A wonderful "summer camp" year of whirlwind friendships and seizing the days, and making the most of things, yes. But somehow it's even bigger than that.

I love the scene in Castaway where Wilson the volleyball floats away, and Tom Hanks just cannot rescue him without compromising his own safety and hopes of rescue, and he is undone with grief as he lets Wilson go. That scene stuck with me more than any other. That silly volleyball represented so much more than a toy or keepsake, or even a conversation partner. It was the last remainder of his life on the island, and stood for everything he had to let go of in order to risk being rescued.

So I think for me, this particular house represented the whole of my experience here in Montgomery.  I am so excited to be back in Massachusetts, and I know I have a lot to look forward to, but the first part of getting there is setting free the things that keep me here. And risking a few tears in order to tell people what they've meant to me.

Believe me when I say, if you haven't weighed this choice before, that it is worth the tears. It is worth feeling a little bit silly as you try to find the words to say, and it is worth the pang in the gut to leave well.

It is also worth noting that now, a couple days after the fact, I don't feel weepy about my house anymore. Friends of ours are moving into it, so I know it's in good hands, and I like feeling good about the fate of my inanimate objects.

I have a couple weeks of (people) goodbyes left though, so please pardon me if I get a bit of a faraway look in my eye. And maybe slip me a little chocolate...

Summer Activities...

Well, a lot has happened since my Brussels sprouts post, and I find myself, as usual, with so much to tell but somehow either too many or too few words to tell it with. I read an article that the online "brain-candy" type articles (BuzzFeed, etc) are decreasing our ability to stick with longer plot lines and more complex stories, and I wonder if they are somehow decreasing my personal ability to stick with telling my stories, because all I can seem to muster are bullet lists of half-thoughts in multiple categories. That, or it's the reality that my children steal my mental bandwidth, and that I've always had a short attention span. So whatevs. Here, for your short-term reading pleasure are some bullet points of my last month and a half (or so)--

--Movers came and packed us up one week in mid-June. I was nervous and angry because our last experience, while not horrendous, messed with my organizational sensibilities, and I wondered if all movers just did things...very differently...than we had done when moving ourselves.  BUT this time around I am pleased to say we had a great crew. They arrived a couple hours later than expected the first day, but it turned out that's because they were located a couple hours away, so after adjusting timing expectations we were very pleased all around. Part of my challenge is the social awkwardness of having other people in my space, handling my stuff. And indeed, it was a little awkward, but their leader was funny, and a talker (but not an over-talker), so that made it a little better since we could make silly comments and move on.

--I've never had professional cleaners, partly because of said social awkwardness, but we spent the money for a move-out clean, and holy smokes I can see what the big deal is because the ladies did a spectacular job shining up the place. Seriously, if you are in the Northern VA area, I wholeheartedly recommend R&A Professional House Cleaners. The Cat Daddy said "How did the sink get so shiny??" Well, it turns out I've read a little of the FlyLady and know there's a way to shine a sink, but have never pursued it. Now that he knows what's possible, I kind of feel like I should give it a try, even if it's just for special occasions. On second thought, maybe you shouldn't hire them, because they will raise your standards, and you will become aware of what is possible in home cleanliness. Thanks for nothing, R & A House Cleaners.

--After getting everything ship-shape we spent the better part of a week getting from Ashburn to Montgomery. The original plan was to take 4 days (2 more than necessary) so we could spend some time with friends along the way. Well, a little car trouble added a day on the front end, but it was an otherwise smooth trip. And thankfully the Pilot is fine now.

--Asheville NC is the East Coast's equivalent of Portland OR. If you find yourself there around lunchtime, do yourself a favor and eat at the Jamaican place called Nine Mile. I had never had Jamaican food before, and I am wary of a lot of spices and stuff, but I'm 98% certain there is something on the menu for everyone. It was so fresh and healthy...and yet flavorful and delicious too. They totally would've won Chopped. Our friend Pastor T convinced me I might be Anglican, but not the high-church-type Anglican. More like the grace-based, "When in Rome..." sort of Anglican. Or something.  It was late at night, but it sounded very reasonable.

--Lookout Mountain is in both Tennessee and Georgia, and it is beautiful. On the GA side lives a family we've known since their three kids were a few years older than our three kids are now, and we immensely enjoyed catching up with all of them (now expanded to include a marriage and grandchild) and finding we have been (mostly) unintentionally imitating them all along. Same dishes and everything, folks. We didn't think we were creepy stalkers, but then again maybe we are.

--The (almost) final stretch brought us into Montgomery and the local Drury Inn for 6 days.  We found the Drury on our last move and really enjoy them for a lot of reasons. They are all the same (no 'character' to speak of, which is normally a bad thing in my mind, but with hotels I think maybe it's preferable), they provide breakfast and a light dinner, they have an indoor/outdoor pool (where no germs will survive because there is PLENTY of chlorine), they are pet-friendly, and in our experience they have always been great to deal with. On this particular trip our check-in lady noticed we had a lot of family members and a lot of spirit, and she upgraded us to a suite free of charge. It had been unavailable when I booked, but had opened up. I said "Yes please, that would be awesome!" and cried tiny tears of joy.

The thing about the (almost) final stretch is that even though we gained stability in a consistent interim home base, we still had to watch our volume and occupy the loud children, and the feeling of being displaced--and not just on vacation--was definitely kicking in. And by that time we'd all been together for so long we were getting a little punchy, so we made up challenges along the way, like doing separate errands with different combinations of children, and eating way too many treats each day, and such. But six days is a huge improvement over the last move, where we spent 2 1/2 weeks in the receiving-end hotel, AND had to secure housing in that time. This time we had the house; we just had to wait for it to empty out.

--And finally we moved in. Overall the process was fairly smooth, although it would be a lie to say there have been no hiccups or deep breaths along the way. Two days later three guys arrived with two big trucks carrying 10 cartons of our stuff, resulting in a maze of boxes and whatnot.

My friend Elizabeth advises folks to provide their movers with food and drinks every day they are there, and I have to say I wish I'd taken this advice sooner. Nothing cuts down on social awkwardness more than saying "Help yourself to the cold water and Gatorade in the fridge," and "Hey we're ordering food, what kind of pizza do you like?" Even if one of the movers is, say, lactose intolerant and you have to ask what alternative would be suitable. And let's be honest--the cost to feed us and three extra big guys pizza (and a sandwich sans cheese) was not much more than our family of 5 eating at a sit-down restaurant, so really the expense is minimal. And even if it weren't, I'd say it's still well worth the cost. And then somehow instead of weird strangers asking where to plop the boxes, you begin to see the real people who happen to be schlepping your stuff throughout the house. I'm now a firm believer in feeding your crews.

--We have set a personal best for speed in unpacking and situating the house. Our last two houses have gone down in size, rather than up. Part of this is the reality of living in different regions with different economies and housing allowances, and part of this is my own leaning toward a bit more simplicity in life, and a personal challenge to the Cat Daddy to see if a smaller place might help me us feel a bit less overwhelmed by all the things. It's just for a year, after all, so there's not much to lose if we end up hating it. I call it a grand experiment and love it so far, but I'm not sure the Cat Daddy would use any of those words in that order.

This is our first move where I have been both not-pregnant AND properly medicated, so I had high hopes going in. And I have to say I've been pleased. Moving is hard work, and stressful, and wearying, and sometimes overwhelming, but I don't feel destroyed (probably too strong a word here, but not by much) by it, like I have in the past.

--So now we are evening out. We are down to a minimum of boxes remaining, and we actually have many of the pictures on the walls. We've visited one church and liked it so much we went back twice so far. We are working on thinning the crap, weeding out, eBaying, and donating where appropriate. The new silverware basket for the dishwasher arrived, so I don't have to hand-wash my spoons anymore (#fwp). I have become some kind of person who socializes at events where I don't know anyone (hello, spouses' orientation) without freaking out. Afterward I want to go home and sleep, but again I don't feel as though simply attending is sucking my will to live. Also, as I determined 10 years ago, having people you know in your new place makes a huge difference. Bonus points if they tell funny stories.

--HELLO, Command Products. His Highness has been bugging me to try them out since he saw them in a Halloween-themed commercial at age 2. I've hemmed and hawed, and procrastinated, but in this house the rules are pretty strict about amount and type of wall hanging materials, so after a short trial run I went for it full-force. His Highness was greatly pleased to see me come home with a bag full of them, and we are crazy Command people, hanging nearly everything with those glorious sticky tabs that don't damage flat paint (a rant for another time), and which stick to stuff you can't put a nail in (thank you, ceramic tile backsplash). I rue my stubbornness at waiting so long. Who would've thought wall adhesive would be such a life changer??



In conclusion, the thing about moving is, while lots (and lots...and lots...) of things change, eventually you find yourself right back where you started. For us that means my children still want to eat every time I turn around ("You're bored; have a glass of water and go play"), and my to-do list really has 123 items, but I can only reasonably accomplish 2 or so per day, I'm a calmer nervous-type, but I'm still a nervous-type, and I still freak out on Thursdays. And while it's frustrating to experience frustrations, it is calming to realize you are reaching the new normal, thinking "THIS I can deal with; it's (I'm) gonna be OK."

Which is good, because we get to do the whole thing again next summer. Goody, goody gumdrops...

How the Military (as a lifestyle for my family) Came to Be...

I was reading the post on SCL about the three main types of pastors' wives, and it got me to thinking about the fun Mrs. T. and I have discovering the similarities between being in ministry and the military. And I say that in a family sense because, even if you have the best of boundaries, these are two careers where it's quite possibly impossible to completely separate work and home.

And then it dawned on me that I don't think I've ever shared the story of how the Cat Daddy entered the military, and consequently how I came to be a military wife. So...

The Cat Daddy and I met in college my freshman year. He was an RA in the dorms. Blah blah blah, we got married just after he graduated with a degree in business management. He started a full-time job on campus working as a techie-type in the computer lab. I had a year to go, after which time I completed my degree in math and secondary education (double major--not so important for social recognition, but very important for grad school entrance committees). Then I taught for two years while he transitioned into more of a network administrator role, got hired with another company, and decided that he didn't want to be a professional computer nerd for his entire working life. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not what he wanted to do.

So we're driving along one night on the way home from dinner out, and out of nowhere the Cat Daddy said, "So, I've never told you this, but my secret dream is to join the Air Force and become a pilot."

Huh? I was thinking "What?? We've committed to be life partners and you neglected to mention your deepest dream (which sounds terrible to me, by the way)??" but I mumbled something like "OK, pray about it," and mentally dismissed the idea, since we had talked about careers & stuff before we got married. I specifically had not wanted to marry a military guy. The whole being away, and possibility of dying, and potential for stereotypical drill-sergeant personalities, and all. It was one of my criteria for a husband. And at the time, he had assured me that he would not be joining the military. Something about his mom "wouldn't let him." Which, even though he really did say it (in a lighthearded way, mind you), is not entirely accurate. Mom-in-law was in the Army for 20 years, and because of her challenges & experiences had more or less discouraged him from joining. Or something.

So it sort of went away for a few months, except it didn't really, because then he started talking about what he was finding out in researching how to actually go about becoming an Air Force pilot. And started studying for the entry exam. And taking the entry exam, passing with flying colors, and all that. Oh crap.

In all of this, I gave my passive blessing. I wasn't sure if this was a real and true dream, or some sort of macho phase, but in the event it was a real dream I didn't want to be a wife who squashed her husband's deepest desires. But I really didn't want it to work out. I wanted the AF to decline him so I could get back to doing my thing without worrying about the possibility of change. When it started looking promising, that's when I put down my terms. I would not sell the house, and we had to seek counsel from trusted friends. And the Cat Daddy said "OK," and we sought counsel from many trusted friends, and I actually said to one friend "I just don't see how God could be behind any of this," and she responded, "Actually, it's entirely possible that he is." Again, oh crap.

By then I had a really, really bad feeling that it was all going to work out. This was a hard thing, because I was more or less living my dream of being a teacher and living in our fantastic little neighborhood near our friends and our church. A complete change in course hadn't even crossed my mind, much less one that involved moving out of state...and then doing so again and again.

And I was really, really afraid of the stereotypes about military wives (and specifically, officers' wives). I didn't want to join the Officers' Wives Club and exchange pleasantries and kiss up to whomever had the highest-ranking husband. Someone (who shall remain nameless, to protect the uninformed) told me that as an officer's wife I would have to start dressing up all the time & hosting teas & whatnot. Nice. I perused the Officers Wives Handbook. Yes, it exists. I'd buy it for the sheer entertainment value and blogging potential, but I still have some hangups there.

Long story short--it worked out. I supported the Cat Daddy in a kicking-&-screaming sort of way. We moved to Ohio. I grieved the loss of my dream, spent 6 months in the depths of despair, & did some counseling. The counselor happened to be a retired major and encouraged me to join the OWC. I made sure I got better real quick.

Then I went to grad school, and God opened my mind to the vast unfathomability of his workings. Not because of grad school, per se, but because I found myself in a co-op position where my duties included flying/floating/puking on the NASA KC-135, thereby fulfilling my secret dream of being weightless, without having to go thru astronaut training and/or get shot into orbit sitting on top of a rocket. Who'da thought...

As for the Cat Daddy, he decided not to pursue pilot training for a variety of really good reasons, and has enjoyed getting to use his business degree (his current 4-year foray into the operational world notwithstanding). Even I must admit that he is totally suited for the military way of life. Me, not so much...but lots of mil-wives aren't, and we console each other frequently and secretly. Whoops, did I say that out loud?

I still don't quite have the words for it. It's not that my life has turned out differently than I expected, it's that the way my life has turned out is so mind-blowingly different than anything I could've thought up on my own (in both good & bad ways). In some ways it's been one big lesson in never saying "never," because you just don't know what can happen. I can tell you with much authority--do NOT test that theory unless you're prepared to deal with the consequences.

I think there's something to be said for the "if you don't like your life, change it" approach, and empowerment and all that, but we must remember that really it's up to God what we do. Somewhere in there I went through the One Year Bible and came across Prov 16:33. The New Living Translation puts it this way: "We may throw the dice, but the Lord determines how they fall." I like that.

Another side to it is that because/in spite of various circumstances God has done a lot of healing in me, both physically with my back stuff, and emotionally with my neuroses and anxieties. Could he have done the same things had we remained in AZ? Yes. Did he? No, but it has kind of grown on me, the way he's woven things together.

Oh, right. Military wives. That's more or less how it happened. It took me a long time to accept the whole thing, and even longer to like it...and still some days I really, really want to chuck it all. But I'm grateful. And I still wear jeans, and make snide remarks, and try to minimize the amount of kissing-up I do. And I still get frustrated at and make fun of the military life because there's a lot to get frustrated at and make fun of.

And I do not play bunco! The end.