A hard, hard farewell

As I sit and type this in my parents' kitchen, it's hard for me to encapsulate what the last two days have entailed. Yesterday, chaos consumed us as we moved, cleaned, moved, and watched warily as "professional" movers threw about our furniture. I made six trips over to my parents' house to drop things off (which cost $75 in gas--ugh).

The rain that pounded the night before gave way to a stifling humidity that left The Banker and me drenched in sweat (not to mention the movers, too, whom I could begin to differentiate by smell). We couldn't get everything out of the house by the buyers' walk-through yesterday evening. Still, the house was orderly and clean enough to pass snuff, and we returned this morning for three more trips hauling our junk.

For starters, I didn't realize we'd accumulated SO. MUCH. STUFF. Loads and loads and loads of boxes. And secondly, we weren't nearly as prepped as I thought we were. When we move into the new house, over a dozen boxes will lack labels and will hold a mish-mash of random things. And how I hate hodgepodge while I'm trying to neatly lay out a new home! But what caught me most by surprise was the heart wrenching sadness that took hold as I prepared my home for someone else. I sat on the empty floor of Becca's nursery and just balled--my sobs echoing off the hardwood floors and the naked walls.

These new people? I'm sure they're nice enough, but they're not good enough for this home. This place that we lovingly updated. This place that we filled with craziness and junk and love. I know every inch of that home, every squeak in the floorboards, every knot in the floor. And it's not mine anymore. My first home, the place I brought my daughter home from the hospital to...it's all gone now. And it still hurts enough to bring tears to my eyes. I know we couldn't stay where we were forever, but leaving hurt so damn bad. And I doubt I'll ever come to love another home as much again.

Bowled Over

There's simply too much to be accomplished and I'm running out of the necessary time and energy. Where are the promised vacation pics? Still in my camera...along with the better part of Becca's memory book. AND SHE'S ALMOST A YEAR-AND-A-HALF OLD. She'll never forgive me if I don't get going on that.

But she may also not forgive me for taking her to Mother's Day Out, where she got so thoroughly upset today that she vomited all over herself. I was putting in a few hours at the company I used to work for (what? and you're moving on THURSDAY? well, see if I didn't go in and work I would have been kicked off of Creative-On-Call, so I kinda had to, despite all the other chaos...). So I'm wracked with guilt, stress over freelance and Creative-On-Call hours, exhaustion from a family wedding this weekend, and a house that needs to be packed and cleaned. And did I mention The Banker turns 30 this weekend?

So what the hell am I doing on here?

I'll try to be back when this overwhelming chaos subsides. And if I promise pictures and fresh cookies, will you come back?

A Hasty Retreat

Was it just last week I departed for Grand Cayman? Where did the time go? And how can I adequately encompass all that that retreat entailed and meant? And do I really have time, given that I need to complete three freelance articles, pack up an entire home, get Becca to her first day of Mother's Day Out, and somehow make time to help out my old company?

Okay, so we'll give it a quick go: Private villa at the Ritz. Needless to say, a girl could get accustomed to that lifestyle. If she were made of money and $20 drinks didn't make her throat seize up. The beach was gorgeous, the digs incredibly posh, the sunsets amazing. I saw two sea turtles while scuba diving and touched sting rays and an eel while snorkeling. Loved, loved, loved it.

The company: I knew only one of the gals on this trip (an amazing friend who kindly asked me to join her. Um, THANK YOU). The other three were strangers to me--two single, one married. I think I could get along great with all of the gals, sans one, who'll we'll get to shortly.

The neighbors: Six married men in their 40s. All fathers. They spotted us on our patio (by the private plunge pool, natch), and invited us over for a drink. I hesitated, but the consensus was it was harmless fun, right? Well, it quickly became apparent that these millionaires (most of who graciously let us know their financial status), put higher stock in their investment funds than in their marriages. And that one aforementioned gal? The tall, beautiful party girl from L.A. who bedded a Coast Guard member during our stay? Well, apparently she took it upon herself to sleep with TWO of these men...unbeknownst to my friend and me, as we'd retired early in preparation for the next day's flight.

I'm disgusted by both the single party girl and the two married men. Not that these things overshadowed my incredible trip--far from it--but they did make me so very, very thankful for the family I have. Who were waiting excitedly at the airport for my return. Pictures later, but now, I have china and crystal to pack.