Flight, please. With wine.

When we last left Erika, she was preparing to move her family into her parent's home IN THREE DAYS. . .

I have a confession. I don't want to move.

It's not that I don't want to leave this place; I could take it or leave it and I'm not sentimental anyway. It's just that the more I think about how life is really going to be. . .like, everyday. . .with my folks. . .the more I realize that this might have been a very. bad. idea.
My answer to this has been to do nothing. That, too, has been a terrible idea.

Bill said to me yesterday that "if it doesn't have to do with the internet or wine, you're not interested." Ouch. Okay, true, but ouch. That sentence is also taken out of context. We were having a brief moment of laughter and happiness at the time and he was kidding.

And when I say "kidding" what I really mean is. . .no. He wasn't.

I've always been interested in wine. And the internet is just where I've been lately because the boxes and the packing and the thought of having to ask my dad to stop feeding Cole marshmallows for breakfast is just not a place I want to be right now. And I'm definitely one of those flight people. Rarely a fighter. Always a flighter. Preferably with wine.

My mind starts wandering to all those little quirks of theirs [and mine, because what's that they say about apples and trees?] that will have to be sorted out in the quirk-sorter-outter. Like how my mom faaa-REAKS when anyone runs down the stairs. . .

Well, she did when I was 16, anyway. And that was the last time I ran down her stairs.

And she hates when I load the dishwasher. Bill hates it, too. . .but he deals. I mean, seriously. . who cares what it looks like as long as they get clean, right? She hates it when I let Cole eat in the living room. Also, probably a bad idea but c'mon. . .choose your battles. She always thinks Matilda's diapers are too tight. She doesn't understand why I "waste my money on organic" or why a gym membership is a priority for me when we get there.

Her oven doesn't work properly. And she doesn't care because it's just the two of them and she doesn't cook, anyway. Just the thought of trying to cook meals in a toaster oven has kept me up at night. . .

seriously?
there are people who cook entire hams in toaster ovens?

It's not my mom. I'm just a daughter and moms are easier targets than dads. And it's not all this silly stuff, either.

It's the point that we won't have our own. . .home. Does that make sense? And it's just not somewhere I'm rushing to get to.

All the reasons we are doing this are still there. My folks need help. We do, too. Being together will be great for the kids. When this is all said and done we'll realize that it was the right thing to do. And the comforts of having my own home and tailoring to my own little quirks won't nearly be as front and center as they are now.

But now is where I am today. And why Bill is ready to pack me in a box and ship me over there. Because I've been useless.

And there it is. My confession. I've been pretty close to useless through this move. And we're T-minus three days.

I'm glad I talked this out with you, because it's helped me to see that I really need to get myself into gear. . .help out and take responsibility for the decision we made. As a family.

A close friend of mine sent me a note when I first told you we were moving. She told me that she lived with her grandparents for awhile growing up and that it was some of the best memories of her childhood. I needed that. And she usually knows exactly what to say, at the right time to say it.

If Cole or Matilda have memories this early in life, they'll remember this time fondly. And. . .if we all survive and make it through to the other side. . .Bill and I will have fond memories of this, too. . .

And hey. . at least I'm finally being forced to whittle down my shoe collection.

Go Team Paradis! :: fist bump ::