Well ladies and gentlemen, 3/4 of our family has officially migrated from the east coast to the west. The Doc will begin his trek Saturday morning as he and his dad drive 3,000 miles to our new home. While that drive sounded like TONS of fun with two little ladies in the back, we opted to have the women folk travel by plane, with a stop here at my parents’ home for a week in between. After an absolutely exhausting couple of days that included this momma having two breakdowns, picture incoherent sobbing me, and little sleep we made it. Thankfully, we all survived and our stuff is now on a truck somewhere between the old and the new.
I have been trying to talk with BQ throughout the process about what is happening and have asked her what she is feeling about the move. In all honesty, she seems fine. The only sign that something is amiss has shown up in the form of wet sheets in the middle of the night. (sigh). Otherwise, she is doing so well I cannot help but stand back a bit amazed. Molé on the other hand is struggling. My sweet girl has been clingy, weepy, and unpredictable. This morning after the girls had their first swim lessons, she was so distraught that I had to wrap her up in a towel in the locker room and sing to her for a good ten minutes. It might not sound odd, but this is something that I never do for her (and no it isn’t because I’m a cold hearted snake, it is because she isn’t into it and would much rather “do my self.”). Even sweet BQ sang a round of Twinkle Twinkle followed by a rousing rendition of ABC’s. That BQ is just delicious.
Anyway, watching my little girl grieve and process this huge change has made me think about my own grief process. So far, I think it has been a bit non-existent. I was so ready to just get on with the move after waiting a year. That’s right, we found out last June that we would be moving and then had another year to dig in and live where we were. I have been so fixated on the details and just getting it all done, that I haven’t really had a chance to sit down and think about the people I will miss or all that those three years back east meant to me and our family. Are there wet nights ahead for me? Perhaps, but I’m hoping for maybe a good cry with my mom instead because the laundry really isn’t any fun. At any rate, I figure if leaving isn’t a bit hard, what was the point and while I have no desire to live on the east coast again, there are some dear, dear friends who will definitely lure me back for a visit someday.
So more process. And more opportunities for great joys along the way. Sounds good to me.