Restless

Sometimes, new things are a little bit scary.

Usually, I'm pretty thrilled with them.  I mean, I like change--I LIKE moving. It's a chance to reinvent yourself, your space, your life.  I wish I had a magic wand to wave away the hassle of packing and unpacking, but, otherwise, I think it's fun. If I had it my way, we'd travel the world or move just every few years to discover new things. Oh, the adventure!

Still, solidity has something to give, too.  I mean, to lay down roots, make friends and deep connections. To really have "home," that's important, too. Once you get settled, really settled, you start thinking about having kids and things.

If we hadn't moved, I'll be honest, we would probably be house shopping or making do in the cottage--with its orange water, swamp bugs, but cozy charm and privacy--and decorating a nursery or something. I'd still be drowning in middle school English papers, but laughing with my students as they gawk at my giant squid mug filled with tea. Chris would still be at the bookshop, working late hours and coming home with stories of nightmarish customers and reasons why his boss is awesome.  I would wonder if I was ever going to escape Florida, the state I was born in and have dreamed of leaving for years. It was always a deep fear of mine that I would be stuck there, rooted, just outside my hometown, teaching at my old school, unchanging. Bound. I hate that word, that feeling.  To be completely trapped.  Sometimes, I'd get upset--I'd mope with the TV on, seeing nothing, and, when Chris would ask what was wrong, I'd tell him, "I'm stuck. I should be overseas, or just in a new state, but I'm stuck. I hate this. I hate it."
He'd tell me about how great it was that we were close to family, and I'd agree wholeheartedly--family is a wonderful, wonderful thing--but something still hurt. Fear still fluttered and clawed at my chest like parasite.  Was this all there was?

I had a moment, once, when I was twenty.  I was home for the summer, and, that night Mom was getting ready for a dinner date with my dad, so I was feeding Ellie, who was barely a year old.  I sat there, spooning food into her mouth, when suddenly I stopped. You know people say when you die how your life flashes before your eyes? It was like that, but forwards instead of backwards.  I saw my future. My mouth fell open, spoon poised in the air, and Ellie leaned forward, little lips opened wide, expectant, and all I could say was, "Oh, gosh!"
Mom came in, straightening something, "What?"
"This is it, isn't it? This is the rest of my life . . . "
Mom rolled her eyes, told me that I was being melodramatic, and then she left. I sat staring at my baby sister, patiently waiting for her next bite, and my heart sank.
I loved Chris. I knew he was the man I would marry . . . but was this the only life we would have? Would there be no more adventure? I know they say that motherhood is one of the greatest adventures, but my heart was sinking. I wouldn't see any more of the world; I would be another generation living the same life in the same place as the past.

Chris says I'm addicted to change. That I have an irrational fear of staying in one place. Maybe he's right. I'm odd like that. I don't like my history--there's nothing really wrong with it. I just don't like it. I feel like I haven't grown up since high school. Sure, I pay bills, have pets, and live with my husband in our own place, but I'm still the same shy, nerdy, awkward kid I was when the cool kids ignored me.  I carry that with me. I shouldn't, but I have the hardest time shaking off that identity: the nerdy nobody.  That's why I like moving: I get to remake me. In college, I was the nerdish, endearing innocent from the fringe group.  My semester in London, I was the sweet one who wasn't girly.  I didn't really change--I just had a clean slate. I don't have that in my hometown. 

So we get this opportunity to move to Cali, and we are thrilled. I mean, out West is where both of us feel we NEED to be. We get here: love the town, love the area, love it love it love it.Still . . . we're both restless . . . is that just new-moving jitters?

Have you ever moved somewhere new? Did you feel restless jitters? Did it go away with time?

Settling

So . . . we survived the six-hour flight here. It was touch-and-go for a bit (word to the wise: please, please, PLEASE don't start a flight by saying, "Sorry about the delay, folks. We were having some problems in the cockpit" . . . Uhhhhh . . . ).

I sat next to a large, pleasant-enough fellow who, when he wasn't sleeping, was eating corn chips and drinking Diet Coke with fervor. I, also, kept dozing off, and it was up to Chris to keep me from falling into the stranger's mushy shoulder. Oh, my knight in shining armor.

I'm a big fan of flying, especially when it's a cloudy day.  You find yourself in this billowing world of white and blue, not a care in the world . . . well, except for the whole being up in the atmosphere and possibly falling to certain death thing.  It's a new place, something entirely foreign.  It's terribly disappointing that clouds do not feel fluffy, that they're just water suspended in air.  What would it be like, skiing down a towering cumulonimbus? Swinging on a cirrus? Then you look down, and the world below is a different place.

 San Francisco at night . . . it looked like a a child had spilled fairy dust--great swirling gobs of it--all over the hills, black except for the vines of twinkling gold. The Golden Gate Bridge gleamed green over the water--tis bright, squiggly line of neon color in the onyx bay.  It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen.  I mean, until I realize that all that black beneath us was water . .  . and we hit turbulence and jolted sideways, and all I could do was wait for the plane to split in half and send us spiraling into a mysterious island inhabited by scientists, polar bears, and unanswered questions . . .

I'm sorry, did I just have a LOST flashback? Forgive me. Too much Netflix with the hubs . . .

We were almost stranded, though . . . After landing, gathering the luggage, finding our courier van, and discovering where the pets were stashed, and driving, driving, driving, it was after midnight. We pull into our reserved hotel, and Chris knocked on the office door.  Nothing. I mean, lights out, no one answered, nothing.  I called the phone number. Yeah, nothing.  It was closed. CLOSED.

MEANING WE HAD NO WHERE TO SLEEP.

Thank the good lord the Hilton in the next town took us in.  Despite the fact that one of our cats YOWLS. It's the sound like shrieking and dry heaving and, oh golly, is it loud.  Walking through the lobby filled with business men,  this cocophonous creature in a cage at my side, I knew how parents tethered to a screaming child feel: MORTIFIED.

Still, we managed to get to the townhouse and get our stuff three days later.  My house, at the moment, looks like a cross between people-moving-in and a frat house on the weekend.  With no pantry and no linen closet, we're getting creative with this storage space . . . or  lack thereof . . . but we like it :]

And um . . .the scenery here? HEAVEN. I keep saying that I've moved to Hobbiton . . . and humming the LOTR theme . . . sometimes, in unison with the hubs . . . because we're soulmates like that. :]

How the pets got used to the stairs in the townhouse . . . I think this is a new favorite :]

Before our stuff arrived, we took a couple days just to drive around . . . This happens to be from our drive down Pacheco Pass. I HIGHLY recommend the drive--GORGEOUS

A little road called Heckler's Pass into Santa Cruz County.  May I add that ti's a death trap? There were acute angles. I mean, teeny TINY turns, one after another, on the edge of a mountain. Chris was laughing way too hard while I sat there, clutching my arm rest, going, "Oh, crap crap CRAP!! CRAPCRAPCRAP!!! YOU JERK!!!"
He was going WAY too fast, people.

After a trip to the Ikea in Palo Alto, Chris decided we should drive to San Francisco and over the Golden Gate Bridge.  One of these days, we're going to actually get out and WALK around the city :] Beautiful.

 We might just turn into Californians, people ;]

Let's Go Fly a Kite . . .

Every time I fly, I think of that song. I don't know why.
Oh, Mary Poppins . . . practically perfect in every way :]

As I type this, I'm sitting next to my husband, watching out the window as our plane to San Fransisco is pulling up to the gate . . .

Which means this is really happening.
 So I'm going to go scream into a brown paper bag and hyperventilate.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The whole week is kind of a blur, but it was a good week. Eventful, stressful, but good. Lots of family visits, lots of fun, lots of goodbyes.  The goodbye hasn't really hit me yet.

At the next gate, there's a small child nearby chanting, "Mama! Papa! Mama! Papa!" incessantly.  We're trying REALLY hard not to laugh.

Chris is sneezing and rearranged  our bags for the upteenth time. You never know how much stuff you have until you try to fit it on a suitcase . . . or three . . . I am proud to announce that I fit a week's worth of clothes for the two of us into a single carry-on.  I'll take my worthy traveler badge, now, thank-you-very-much.

The missing people hasn't fully hit me, yet.  It will soon, I'm sure--I don't know what will happen when it does . . . I don't do tears, well.  The new-place-is-permanent hasn't settled in as reality. This has been a "plan" for so long, you never really think you'll see it, feel it.  But here it is.  Part of me is still kind of in denial . . . the rest of me is bouncy around like a maniac child on a sugar rush, and I'm trying to contain it. Does it seem insensitive that I don't cry? We'll be back for a visit in June . . . and, if this doesn't work out, you know . . . but I'm really, really, REALLY hoping it works out. You have no idea.

Boarding in ten minutes.
This is totally happening.
HOLYFREAKNCRAPMARYMOTHEROFGODOHMYGOODNESSGOLLYGEEWILLICKERSOHMYGOOOOOOOOSH