Moving sucks. Losing a passport sucks more.

I hate moving. It’s ironic, coming from someone who used to move multi-truck shows pretty much every week. Besides touring, I have had approximately thirty-seven addresses in my life. This is not an exaggeration. You can ask my mother and she’ll happily show you her paper address book.

Every time I move, I put it off until the last possible minute. Moving checklists from organizational type entities such as women’s magazines or the Post Office start two months out. I rarely have my next address two months out. I always use the same method: on moving day, throw everything in bags, suitcases, and milk crates and carry it out until it’s gone.

WARNING: This method doesn’t work when moving a household of seven people (in case you thought it sounded like a good plan that you might want to try).

In my defense, when we finally bought a house I knew my old method of moving wasn’t going to work, and we attempted those insane two-months-out checklists. It still came about that moving day dawned with less than half the house packed up. The movers got there late- but not that late.

The best part about the move is that CC had to work. One of the features of our jobs is that sometimes you actually can’t get a day off for very important things. Neat. He got up early, packed up some more boxes, went out and got me a bazillion shot cappuccino from our local coffee shop, and left for work.

Around this time, #1 was prepping for a trip to Europe. It was a big deal: an academic group that was invitation only. She did a ton of work with the group before the trip.

In 2008 when CC and I got married, #1 gave me this purse at my bridal shower (I promise, this is significant to the story):

On the day of the wedding, it became the thing I couldn’t lose. It held the rings; the check for the caterers; the money for the minister; the money for the band; the marriage certificate; the keys to Miss Lucy, my ’66 Mustang; my lipstick; and my chocolate.

Likewise, when we honeymooned in Costa Rica, it held our money and passports and credit cards- right up until the moment when we started driving through the flood:

. . . at which point I transferred everything to my undergarments. CC got us through the floods fine, though it was beyond sketchy at several points. To hold up my end of the bargain I made with god, I haven’t complained about his driving since. For real.

So the pirate purse was my logical place to put everything important on the day of the move. The money for the movers, the keys to both houses, my ID, and #1’s recently-acquired passport, because she needed it for her trip in about three weeks.

We moved. It sucked. Around 9pm, there was no place left to put boxes in any of the rooms, but there were boxes filling the last quarter of the truck. I told the movers to stack them in the garage. They moved faster than they’d moved the entire day and I couldn’t keep up- end result being that any box we might actually need was topped by six other boxes that had come out of basement storage.

Over the next couple days, we began making paths and striving for some order out of the chaos. This was when I noticed that #1’s passport was NOT in the pirate purse.

Crap.

I remembered putting the passport in there. Except, clearly, I hadn’t. So where was it?

We spent a total of three days going through every box literally three times. It was a mind-numbing, time-consuming experience that left us drained and our house in even more disorder, and still we did not find the passport.

Crap.

By this point, we had to tell #1 that I had lost her passport in the move. Any shred of belief she had about me being responsible vanished at this point. CC got online and started researching how to get a passport really fast. We had the added red tape of needing to provide extra legal documentation regarding custody in person. He attempted to make appointments at several different offices and did get one.

In Pennsylvania.

In ten days.

If that didn’t work out, she wasn’t going to get to go on the trip. And it was All. My. Fault.

We continued to look for it right up to the night before the appointment. We were getting ready for bed. CC had set his alarm for some ungodly hour way before the sun was coming up. He glanced at the secretary’s desk in our room, an antique that belonged to his mother. It’s the very desk that I’m writing on right now. It folds up and has a key lock and I had placed that key in the pirate purse.

CC: Where’s the key to the desk? We haven’t looked in here.

Me: Here.

CC: That’s not the key. That’s the key to the wardrobe you gave to Lindsey and David.

Me: Crap.

We looked at each other. It was almost too much to hope for. But why would I have considered that key to be so important that it went in the Pirate Purse?

CC went to the garage and found his toolbox, because even if I can’t keep track of a passport I know not to bury the tools. He brought a file and proceeded to file the wrong key down until it fit the keyhole on the desk.

He opened the desk, and there was the passport.

I felt such a flood of relief that I feel it even now while we’re still paying for that trip on credit. I will add to my list of qualifications for stepmom of the year: I did not completely crush her soul and forfeit her trip to Europe!

Ever lost a passport? What important objects have you lost? What’s your qualification for [fill-in-the-blank] of the year?

All Over the Map

I heard about the little boy in Brooklyn yesterday. Someone left a NY Post on the subway I took from work and I saw the headline. CC filled me in, just the barest details because I asked him to stop. It wasn’t something I could handle in public.

Later, around 1:30am, way after everyone else was asleep, I looked it up online. And I wept. I sobbed so hard I woke the puggles up and they both tried to be in my lap at the same time.

Christine at Quasi Agitato wrote a post about it that I read and thought me too.

When I could pull myself together, I went into #5’s room. He’s the same age and wears the same glasses as the little boy who took a wrong turn and met the very wrongest man.

I know that real parents do this, but I don’t very much: I scooped him up and I squeezed him and gave thanks for him until I was afraid he’d wake up and wonder why I was acting so weird, and I stopped, because I didn’t want to tell him. I don’t want him to know that things like this happen in our world.

I fell asleep crying, thinking about the little boy and his family, and his close-knit Orthodox community who through all this badness are saying, We were lucky to have him if only for a short time, who are saying, God wanted it, and are being stronger than I can comprehend.

Here’s the part that I hate. I woke up late. I didn’t immediately remember why I felt so heavy, why my eyes were swollen. Found out there was a presentation at Vacation Bible School this morning, the last day of it, and the kids wanted me to come, which made me cranky.

I snapped at all the kids and I didn’t realize it until they went out the door.

Ever wish you could have a do-over? I heard somewhere I could start my day over any time I wanted to, so that’s what I did. I tried to be nice to all the kids and not be a jerk for the rest of the day.

****************

I went to the presentation at VBS. #4 and #5 were participants, #3 was helping with the little teeny kids, and #2 sat with me. It was pretty amusing.

First off, each kid had been given a glow stick necklace, and most of them wouldn’t hook properly. Total glowstick chaos in the darkened gymnasium. The lady running the presentation got on the microphone and apologized for the poor fastening, but told the kids that they needed to leave their glow sticks alone. It was about as effective as you might imagine. The kids who did get them hooked were flinging them around, rolling them like hoops, playing ring toss. The kids who didn’t were largely using them as lightsabers.

They did, however, quiet down for her.

I looked at this gym full of kids learning about God and I remembered that the boy in Brooklyn was learning about God at his camp too.

There was music. They had tracks from a national band that does kid worship music. While it’s not really my thing, I liked that this band took old hymns and totally hipped out the music, all different styles. Lots of hooks. I love hooks.

I also loved that the opening number had a shitload of Marilyn Manson riffs in it.

I learned that God is unchanging. That was the theme of VBS this year.

I was reminded that the people in this church are really nice. I’m the one who doesn’t attend services, but everyone is looking out for the souls of my children and they go out of their way to make sure the kids know about things like VBS and Sunday School, and they even pick them up and take them there. Even though I suck, these people never make me feel anything but welcome.

I learned that they’re soldiers in the Lord’s Army. Which I guess is kind of like the KISS Army, but mightier (except perhaps where marketing is concerned).

When it was over, my kids all flocked over to me and were running up and down the bleachers. #5 informed me that he has a new way to play dead, and indicated that it involves his glow stick. He ran off.

#2: Never a good sign when one of your children tells you he has a new way to play dead.

Me: Too true.

He never did demonstrate it.

Then they fed us. Did I mention that these people are really, really nice?

#5 kept poking my stomach while we were sitting on the ground eating chips and hotdogs. He thought it was hilarious and kept ~~saying~~ screaming at the top of his lungs, “It jiggles! It jiggles!” Thanks, #5. On the way back to the car he grabbed a cookie. It was homemade. Chocolate Chip.

#5: Do you have a cookie?

Me: No.

#5: They’re really delicious. (“delicious”. I love it when he says things like that) Do you want a bite?

Me: No, but thank you, that’s very sweet of you to offer.

#5: Good.

Me: Good?

#5: Yes, I’m glad you don’t want a bite.

Me: If I had said yes, would you have said, “Too bad”?

#5: No. But I would have told you to take only a small bite.

Me: Oh.

#5: You can fit like a whole cookie in your mouth.

*******

When I got home, I saw that Chase McFadden and Leanne Shirtliffe had posted #4 and #5’s Jump Off a Cliff and Fall to Your Doom Song on Stuff Kids Write. That made me smile.

I had a conversation with #1 on the phone. I liked that. We don’t talk enough.

CC had an unexpected afternoon off. He was reading on our bed when the puggles came up and fell asleep in circles next to him. He nodded off. #5 came in and sat next to them and read his Magic Tree House book, petting Casey the whole time. It was super cute and I wish I had a picture of it, but my camera is dead from a recent trip to pick up #2 from her volleyball camp at the Naval Academy, so you’ll have to settle for a different picture of #5 and Casey sleeping.

There’s a thirteen year old girl with type one diabetes at the Bikram yoga studio I go to in the city. She’s doing the 30-day challenge and blogging about it here. I couldn’t go to a class today, so I went to the gym and worked out hard.

Diana at Life Well Blended linked to a recipe that I tried. I think it was supposed to be one of those thirty minute deals but it took me more like an hour and a half (not surprising). I made it ugly but yummy, and the kids mostly ate it.

Sweeping my front porch for the first time since I moved in two years ago, I was joined by a mother wild turkey with eight baby wild turkeys. Wished again for my camera. I love the sounds they make. I’m also glad I don’t drink Wild Turkey anymore.

#5 and I are in the scary part of our current book, I Survived Hurricane Katrina, where the family is trapped in their house and the water is coming into the attic and they’re chopping their way out onto the roof. He wanted to know how big their house was, how tall, and when I told him it was the same as ours, he was afraid. So I got us out of it with a joke, like we always do. We joked about how Jack will always protect us from the storms because that’s why he’s so worried all the time: he’s on emergency watch. And he would bark that water right back to the ocean.

I’m listening to Rasputina. I’m listening to Type O Negative. I’m trying to shake the heavy and accept what is. How I wish I was in Brooklyn on Monday just happening to walk down the wrong turn street at the right time. How I wish I didn’t need do-overs in my own home, that I always remembered what a gift each day, each moment, with each kid is. The familiar feeling comes that somebody trusts me way too much, that clearly there’s been some error.

But I’m still here. We’re all still here. Thank you, whoever, for that.

Double Standards

#1 is graduating from high school today. Even though high school for her has been kind of the opposite of butterflies and rainbows (what would that be? horseflies and hail? rabid bats and an ice age?) I am very happy for her, and even proud of her.

Allow me to say that again, in case you didn’t catch it: I AM PROUD OF HER, this #1. She is a remarkable and unique young lady. To say she’s been through a lot to reach this moment would be an understatement; I’ll leave it at that, because sometimes understated is best.

#4 had her fifth-grade promotion on Tuesday. I have to hand it to the class moms for managing to get the ceremony down to an almost reasonable time. They shaved an entire hour off and it clocked in at about an hour and a half.

I mostly cried only at the beginning when they were playing a video with pictures of the little kids all through their years at the school and one of the soundtrack songs was this abomination by Taylor Swift (I had to Google it) called Never Grow Up. Ms. Swift, you shall be held accountable; I went through two Kleenexes. At least the KISS pictures showed up during that song.

The pictures I took didn’t come out well, except for this one, which has nothing to do with anything except to remind you that Jersey Rules:

jerzgrl — Maternity Couture, Jersey Style.

I feel like I’m supposed to mark both occasions with some kind of sage advice or at least encouraging words, even though the very thought of such a thing is hilarious to anyone who knows me.

I discovered that I have contradictory things that I want to say.

To #4: You’re beginning the most important years of your education.

To #1: After today, none of this matters anymore.

To #4: Middle School is the start of your permanent record. Your conduct is important because this follows you everywhere and can’t be undone.

To #1: There’s not much that can’t be fixed with a lot of prayer and earnest repentance. (I got this from My Jewish Friend Jason in a conversation we were having about Jews with tattoos).

To #4: You can be anything in the world that you want to be.

To #1: You can be anything in the world that you want to be. Except, probably, at this point, a ballerina or an opera singer. And also a kid who is laying around the house playing video games with no job come September. Other than that, you can be anything in the world that you want to be.

To #4: Your education is the most important thing in your life.

To #1: Your peace of mind is the most important thing in your life. Never forget that.

In the spirit of peace of mind, and being understated, I’ll be the one in the stands tonight wearing beige and keeping my mouth shut (except to yell when they call her name). I’ll be armed with dark chocolate and tissues and won’t be wearing mascara.

Congratulations, #1!