What I Hate About Moving, Part I Have No Idea...

Okay, so I totally did not mean to leave you hanging. Ren is fine, aside from the random facial swelling that comes and goes and always responds to Benadryl. Is anyone else married to someone who has allergic reactions to major changes? I'd feel better if you said you were.

Since my last post, we packed, I lectured for two days at a seminar miles from home, we packed some more, and, then, we moved. So, here we are, and I've managed to let several perfectly good blog posts pass me by in the process.

I think I'll try to pick up where I left off: what I hate about moving. The biggest thing I hate about moving is change. As a kid, I wept at the end of each school year. I mean, how could anything ever be as awesome as Mr. Mills' fifth-grade homeroom? (For the record, I was right about fifth grade. My sixth-grade class was full of delinquents who did things like remove bricks from the bathroom wall during restroom break. Do you know how excruciatingly boring  it is to sit through an entire afternoon of rebukes and explanations as to why such behavior is inappropriate?) Turns out Ren also stinks at change, so you can imagine what sort of children we've spawned.

Sky's last speech appointment, which was also his last visit to the children's therapy center that has been a second home to us post diagnosis, did not go well. I'm sugar coating here. A more appropriate description would be that it was one of the most hellish 45-minutes I've ever spent. Ever. The therapist wanted to spend ten minutes creating social stories for the move before shifting into free play (in celebration of Sky's last day there). He would have nothing of it. Instead of 10 minutes of work followed by 35 minutes of play, we had 45 full minutes of meltdown, which included but was not limited to the following: screaming, crying, fleeing, kicking, knocking over chairs, and yelling at the therapist. It was awesome. And by awesome, I mean, utterly heartbreaking. For everyone.

Forty-five minutes is forty-five minutes. And the therapist had other appointments, so the session ended with me sitting on the floor holding Sky in a bear hug to help calm him. Of course, before we left, both the therapist and I reminded Sky that sometimes his choices (in this case, adamant refusal to do what he's told) lead to unpleasant consequences (in this case, the worst ending to anything ever). After all of the positive experiences we've had there, it was a crappy way to end. It made me cry. But that's the thing about moving: there never seems to be enough time to lament your losses.

Ninety minutes later, I was on the road to my lecturing gig. By the end of my two-hour drive, I had a sinus infection. Because, of course I did. This ensured that all of us were sick just in time for the move that took place the day after I got back from my trip. If you're wondering why I scheduled the move right after a three-day business trip, you obviously don't know me at all.

Of course, part of the problem was that the movers started loading the truck a day earlier than planned. Between the removal of a couch and two love seats (which we sold) and the sudden invasion of strange men who insisted on putting all of our things into boxes, the kids lost it very early in the moving process. Fortunately, numerous friends swept in to help. They took the kids to play, helped pack boxes, kept me supplied with Diet Coke, drove our trash away, and treated us to our favorite Thai carry-out for lunch. On the second day of the move, two friends even showed up at 6:30 in the morning to help with the final packing push before the movers arrived. Thanks to the help of many, we survived the move.

*****

Okay, since I have no idea how to properly end this post, I'll leave you with a picture.

How do you keep a kid from freaking out during a move? Lots and lots of Scribblenauts. That, and giving him something to do. Here, he's guarding the truck while the movers are at lunch. Potential thieves don't realize they could steal every single thing from under his nose and he'd never realize it.

Maybe it's fitting that I don't know how to end this. You know in the movies when they disintegrate something into a million tiny particles and shoot it across the room/town/world/galaxy before it's reconstituted somewhere else? And you know how sometimes in the process of putting all the pieces together, some of them get scrambled, wreaking all sorts of havoc? Well, moving is a lot like that for me. I guess I should just be happy I managed to write anything at all.