The Urge to Purge

First, a quick aside on yesterday's semi-ranty 5 favorites: if you had a natural childbirth, I don't hate you. I actually think you're amazing, and I'm a little bit in awe of you. I just don't want to read stories about how 'all women were made to do this' and 'this is my one shot as a woman to unite my sufferings to the Cross of Christ.' It just isn't any good for me. And that's all I was saying.

My two bff's have pushed out half a dozen natural wonders between the two of them with nary a drip of narcotics to speak of...and I stand in awe. But having ridden in a couple of bucking backlabor rodeos myself, I can now confidently say that, unless a future child o' mine decides to debut in a moving vehicle, there is nothing that can stand between this woman and her spinal block. Nothing. And I've run 5 half marathons and had a cavity drilled without novocaine. So I guess there are just different kinds of pain that different bodies can handle.

Mmmkay, moving forward. We're packing. And last night while lying in bed awake awake awake until the heat finally broke close to midnight, Dave and I were discussing the logistics of next week's immigration flight and it occurred to us that schepping a double stroller, 8 suitcases, a hiking backpack, 3 carryon items and a computer bag through 4 airports is going to be really, really painful. And expensive.

My goal, then, is to pare our nomadic inventory down even further, and I'm happy to report that after a few hours generously gifted to me by Timmy the Sheep and Pimpa the stupid looking dog (Italian cartoons are the worst. The worst.) we're 2 entire suitcases of junk lighter.

I've successfully culled the boys' wardrobe down to about 20 pieces per child, which, honestly, still seems like a lot of clothes for two little people. That includes summer and winter wardrobe options, and one heavy jacket per kid. And like 3 pairs of shoes apiece. Yes, it will mean more frequent laundry, but such nice tidy little loads. I think I could conceivably launder their entire wardrobe in 2 washes now, which feels amazing.

I accidentally added 10 lbs of crucifixes, rosaries, and various religious kitsch to our chattel with my frantic shopping spree yesterday morning, so now I'm trying to justify having 4 separate icons of the Holy Family, and still hoping to score an authentic Fontanini nativity creche sometime this weekend. Because who lives in Italy and doesn't own a nativity set? It's practically a crime, I tell you.

Also on the chopping block after this morning's re-evaluation: picture frames, every single toy my children own except for 2 stuffed animals apiece, too-small shoes (sorry, little brother, if that's you in there) and various adult clothing items that made me pause longer than 3 seconds in considering their value.

I basically have 3 criteria for determining whether something stays or goes:

1. Do I love it/does it make me happy? A little subjective, yes, but what's more subjective than choosing an outfit in the morning? I find this works especially well with clothes, both for me and the kids. I might have tossed away a few pairs of perfectly good cords this morning from their stash...but I never dressed them in those pairs. And so even though they were a great brand/in decent shape/perfectly serviceable...they were just taking up space. Use it or lose it.

2. Can I easily replace this? This is especially helpful to me when I'm wavering between stay or go for some piece of something or other purchased from Target, etc. If it was cheap and easy to find in the first place, then why not let it go and pick another one up later, if it is truly missed? When packing for a move, I find it helpful to consider whether I'd buy the item in question a second time, which is essentially what you are doing when you're paying to ship or transport something you own. So IKEA picture frames, Target canvas storage bins, thrifted little boy's winter pants? Gone, gone, and gone.

3. Am I holding on to this for emotional reasons? I think this is more applicable for women who, unlike me, aren't heartless robots bent on world domination (thanks Jen for the alternate MB site recommendation), but I will still find myself hanging on to something simply for the memories it evokes, as I'm sure even Vladimir Putin does from time to time.

But in this semi-nomadic life we're leading right now, memories travel light and free, while filthy-yet-adorable Peter Rabbit pull toys do not. So, (sob) Peter, I'm afraid you'll find the Eternal City to be your appropriate final resting place.

Ours is just identical. Except for being encrusted with filth and disease and without a hint of plush left in his fur coat.

So there you have it. Packing for dummies who fear airport transfers and extra baggage fees.

Happiest of Thursdays mamas, be you natural birthing hippies, housekeeping queens, licensed interior decorators, or run of the mill slobs with the sheen of a week's worth of crappily-prepared meals glistening on the trays of your IKEA high chairs.

The internet is big enough for all of us, and I salute you.

Toddlers and (Papal) Tiaras

We had lived in Rome all of 3 weeks when Pope Benedict announced his intention to abdicate the papacy, setting in motion a frenzy of events and news coverage the likes of which the world hadn’t seen in 6 centuries. Naturally, my two darling children took it all in stride, one going so far as to volunteer to be kissed in front of an audience of about a billion by the outgoing Holy Father. Yeah, we’re living the high life…but we’re also rolling dirty, toddler style...
Head on over to Catholic Exchange to read the rest of this post.

Landing Gear

We arrived in Italy late Thursday evening, rain falling lightly outside the airport terminal as Franco and Jacovich wheeled our mountain of luggage to a waiting van and somehow, miraculously, loaded it all in, fitting each piece in like vertical jigsaw puzzle.

I don't recommend traveling with children ever. I used to, but then I had more than 1, and I changed my perception of what is fun, feasible, and rational. Traveling is none of those things so long as more than one in your party are crapping in their own pants and/or unresponsive to sleep-inducing medications.

Speaking of medications, the bleepity bleeping British version of the TSA confiscating not one but three bottles of baby Tylenol and about 40 containers of baby food whilst whisking through security at Heathrow. F word. Out loud. In front of mah children.

"Do you have a prescription for this?"

A hateful Brit dangled my bag of baby booty above a ravaged carry-on bag, a bag that had already been screened in Denver, mind you, and hadn't really been anywhere besides, oh, the plane and this freaking connecting airport.

"For my Up and Up brand ibuprofen and benedryl?" No, no I don't ... but please give me your phone number and home address so that I may send you hate mail and late-night prank calls involving screaming, teething children who cannot be sedated.

Miss congeniality helpfully offered to open 6 containers of pureed delish and allow me to 'safety test' each one by eating a bite in front of her, but I was simply too focused on catching our connection to Rome to play her game, so I snarled and peeled out in search of our gate, with shit spilling everywhere from the stroller.

"You're going the wrong way, madam."

Literally growling by this point, I whiplashed the children in a brisk about-face and headed towards the gate, realizing about 100 feet shy of the desk that I hadn't seen my purse in a while...

We didn't make that connection.

3 painful hours and one very embarrassing spectacle of public affection later we were finally leaving Heathrow, booked helpfully onto the next Rome flight by a stoic British Airways employee after my errant diaper purse had been located and returned into my sniveling, hyperventilating paws. Stuffed with lip glosses, baby gear and 900 euro in cold, hard cash, I was a hot hot mess until I had it back.

Idiot.

So anyway, that was day one. When we finally got to our apartment that evening, Dave ran out for beer and pizza, and we sat around the table gulping Peronis and staring at each other in stupified awe.

We'd done it; we'd moved to Italy.

When In Rome

So we're here.

22 hours of travel. 3 glasses of wine. 1 horrific hour at Heathrow, during which I was stripped of my pride, dignity, and every container of babyfood I'd imported from America.

But I digress.

This place, Rome, it's not so bad, but it is essentially crazy. Last night we strapped on a beach bag and a hiking backpack and walked 4 miles in light rain to and fro the grocery store and the cell phone shop. We ended up with a rather motley assembly of groceries and no cell phones, but the fact remains: we tried.

And. AND...we found tortilla chips and something called beans in chilly, which look sort of like pinto beans and taste not very like them at all...but which will most definitely do the job.

A brief summary of Italy thus far. It is: inconvenient, messy, loud, languid, glamorous, indulgent, sensual, historic, frenetic, and peaceful, all at once. The boys are nuts, we're sleep deprived, (in fact, Joey is yelling at me from his packnplay even now, at 10 pm) but we're still really happy to be here.

We had a picnic lunch today at the base of Castello San Angelo and ate brie, bread, apples, dark chocolate and Coke like it was a delicacy. And it tasted like it was. Joey chased pigeons, rode the filthy carousel, and generally played the part of 'city kid' to a T.

I think we'll do just fine here.

But damn, my feet hurt.

And Away We Go

This is what packing for a global relocation for a family of four looks like:

Flapping in anticipation of 14 hours in the air.

Posing with all our worldly goods. Minus stroller.

Grandma? Come with us?

Maybe anxious to bon voyage her houseguests?

Or maybe not. Honesty, we're breaking Grandma's heart.

Next post coming at you from the Eternal City, sometime around Thursday evening. Until then, arrividerci and please God let the benedryl work...

Checking In

Still alive, and still Stateside for the moment. We had a bit of a setback in visa land last week, but after examining all our options and talking to wiser and more seasoned world citizens than ourselves, we've decided to through caution and American order/efficiency to the wind and forge on ahead, sans documentation, to the land flowing with cheese and pasta.

Dave has his work visa, but the boys and I are essentially illegal aliens once 90 days elapse from our arrival in Rome. According to various and conflicting sources, what this means on a practical level is either  an arduous return flight for me and the boys to Chicago or NYC sometime before March 9th to procure our stubborn papers, or nothing at all, because Italians couldn't care less about your papers. Except when they do.

Clear as broken crystal.

Meanwhile, I've been drowning my anxieties by packing and repacking our remaining worldly goods into 8 suitcases and watching season 3 of Downton on a newly (illegally?) obtained british DVD which can only be played on a Mac. Weird?

Anyway, just wanted to drop the internet a line and let you fine people know we're alive, mostly well, and suffering sleep deprivation at the hands of baby Mussolini who is sleeping inches from my head at my family's house. Night waking is a bitch in the best of circumstances, but night waking in a house crammed with 9 people and 2 animals is an even surlier canine. I spent the hours between 2 and 4 am this morning alternating between nursing and letting my 20 lb 'newborn' sleep in a sweaty heap on my neck, trying and failing to not feel sorry for myself and thinking of someone whose suffering is so much more intense. I personally like this list for a schedule of Jen's foreseeable future.

Hopefully the next time I post, I'll be in a verrry different time zone.

Ciao!

Moving With Children

We are T-minus 4 days until we depart Denver and just a short week from leaving the States, and as our house continues to devolve into shanty status, our suitcases are still largely empty. I guess we're waiting for some magical combination of sleeping children, energy, and a burst of insight into what it is, exactly, we should be packing into our 8 suitcases to start our new dolce vita.

Thus far, I've consistently outscored on the 'purge' column and failed to deliver much of anything into the 'pack' side of the equation. It did, however, feel monumentally important to spend $35 dollars at Hobby Lobby the week before Christmas on 3M command strips for hanging...I don't know, pictures we don't own yet? On the plaster walls of our foreign flat.

In addition to my healthy adhesive stockpile, I've also managed to amass a decent supply of Tide-to-go pens, Sharpies, prescriptions, pregnancy tests, and like a year's worth of cosmetics and baby toiletries. Because my babies use toiletries. And because I'm a sucker for my best friend's employee discount.

Meanwhile, I've been putting off the actual task of, you know, packing for a family of four to live overseas for an indefinite amount of time. I have suitcases lined up in the basement, and I have a decent idea of what to put into them as far as housewares (like 4 framed pictures and some tiny candleholders from Pottery Barn, since you didn't ask), kitchen supplies (a garlic press and one spatula we love. Sad? Or super impressive? I can't decide), toiletries, and adult clothing...but for the kids...oh, the children. What about the children?

The children, as it turns out, are something of a rarity in Rome. Italy has the lowest birthrate in all of Europe and the second lowest birthrate in the world, second only to Japan. In a weird and sad display of cultural irony, Italians are also borderline obsessed with babies. We're talking grown men in 3 piece suits dropping to their knees on a filthy city bus to pinch your bello bambino's cheeks and making kissing noises obsessed.

So while they aren't having any of their own offspring, they will not hesitate to pour their hearts out in praise of yours. This has been uniformly true in our limited travels elsewhere in Italy, but seems especially true in Rome, which is admittedly a nice break from giving whiplash to the lady behind me in the Target checkout line when she asks if we'll be 'trying for a girl?' wink, wink.

(Gee, I guess so. Do you have any tips? We seem to keep rolling 'penis' every time we play the game.)

Back to the bambino/a/s though. Since they're an endangered species who require the utmost care and coddling, it is only fitting that their diapers should cost approximately one US dollar per dump, and their onesies retail for around $12 a pop. (Wish I were kidding, sadly I'm not.)

So aside from wild dreams of tandem potty training my Irish twins and abandoning layers as a dressing technique, I've made some serious efforts to beef up my stash of portable baby gear ... and in the process, I've narrowed down what I believe are my true 'can't live without' items for early child rearing.

Having recently sold our 8th stroller (3 of which were doubles), and all the nursery furniture I simply had to have when I was pregnant with Joseph, heir to the throne, I am now left with the following sundries* which will be making the leap across the pond with us.

• Double stroller: After months of intense research, some test-driving, and a failed Craigslist foray into Maclar-land, we settled on this pretty pony...and we couldn't be happier. So far. We'll see if we end up in some 4th floor walkup situation, at which point I will either be suffering severely expensive buyer's remorse or at long last sporting Michelle Obama's triceps. It's heavy, but all doubles are heavy, and it pushes like a dream. Plus, my kids love punching eachother, and this bad boy has 16 different seating configurations to facilitate many different angles of assault. Seriously though, it's the best single piece of baby gear I've ever purchased. 

• Pack n play: after a hot debate, we're decided on bringing uno, and letting little brother sleep on a pillow-lined mattress on the floor until we can get to Roman IKEA for a brand new baby cage for his very own. Our more than 2 year old still sleeps in a crib and has never tried to get out (please Jesus, let it continue to be so), so we're planning on 2 cribs for as long as is legal.

• 2 stuffed animals each and a handful of well-made toys which they have proven to enjoy. (A Melissa and Doug garbage truck and a battery powered John Deere, if you must know.) Nothing larger than what will fit into a canvas storage cube from Target, which is now the toybox. And it.is.awesome. They're already playing so much more creatively and doing more interaction (and yes, more fighting) now that their inventory has been drastically slashed. 

• Winter and summer wardrobes for their current and next-up sizes. We plan on being home for a wedding next summer, so any real shopping will have to wait until then, unless I happen upon some glorious Italian equivalent of Goodwill.

• A digital forehead thermometer and Children's Tylenol and Motrin. Will we be able to find these there? Probably. Do I prefer to spend my hard-earned Euros on wine? Definitely. (I read on one ex-pat mommy blog that baby advil was $12 a bottle and had a mini stroke.) 

• My trusty Ergo Sport. I have a love/hate relationship with babywearing, but this thing comes in seriously handy for long flights, papal audiences, awkward networking events, and sightseeing in stroller unfriendly places. Plus, I can still strap Joey into it when need be.

•  4 spare pacifiers for each little mister. Just in case we can't find their preferred brand abroad. I plan on taking children's pacis away when someone is reaching out to put a diploma in their hands, for the record. And Joey only uses his while he is in his crib, so he won't have much to discuss in therapy later.

• This completely amazing sound machine, which will probably start smoking and shooting out sparks as soon as I plug it into the janky Roman power grid, but whatever, I can't bring myself to leave it behind.  

• 2 sippies per boy, and a couple of cloth bibs

• The world's best breast pump, batteries included. Just in case we meet and fall in love with a wonderful babysitter oooooor have a lengthy audience with the Pope someday. 

• And last but not least, our current wonderful babysitter, plus a handful of DVDs for maintaining those critical bits of English vocab, the likes of which only Thomas, Dora, and George can provide.

 And there you have it, folks. A comprehensive list of items necessary for the survival of yours truly + 2. Laugh now or laugh later, but I'm feeling strangely optimistic that we've got it aaaaaaaall figured out.

Buona notte!

*(disclaimer: Since Dave's company isn't paying moving expenses beyond airfare and baggage fees, we are literally moving with 8 suitcases and a few carryon items. If we were shipping stuff, this list would look a little different)

7 Quick Takes: Leaving Home

On a practical level, moving vast distances with children in tow has never in the history of humanity been easier. I am well aware of the fact that as I pack up my first-world toddlers to cross the pond to greener pastures vineyards, more than 2,000 years ago the Holy Family was preparing a road trip to Egypt. And I'm pretty sure that donkey was not the first-century version of business select.

But, but ... holy crap there's a lot to do. We sent Dave's parents and siblings out the door at 3:30 this a.m. and fell to the task of caring for two ear infected small ones. Naturally, daddy woke up with a stomach bug, so we're operating at approximately 25% capacity. Here is what remains, not that you are in any way interested:

1. Visas. Dave's is allegedly en route from the Italian consulate in Chicago. It better be, because they took his passport a month ago to begin the process, and we kinda can't fly without it. The boys and I are banking on God's good graces and a connection at the Vatican which will, in theory, allow us to pursue our family visa from Italian soil, rather than trying to finish the process from the U.S. (which we've been told is impossible in our time frame.)

2. More documents than you have ever seen in your life, copied in triplicate and 'apostilled,' a weird legal notorization which grants validity to U.S. legal documents outside the States. Oh, and translations of each in Italian. Think birth certificates, marriage licenses, passports, etc. Fun and expensive, the perfect late December combo.

3. Purge and pack the remainder of our belongings. I've laid out 8 suitcases in the basement and while it looks like a hell of a lot to carry through the airport, it doesn't look nearly spacious enough to encapsulate the 'downsized' wardrobes, books, toys, toiletries and home goods I've been culling for the past 6 weeks. Goodwill, it's time for me to return the favor: 2 metric tons of crap coming your way.

4. Learn Italian. So probably stop using the Rosetta Stone box as a place to rest open beer bottles on. Or at least pop the CD in while drinking the next beer. Plus, that air-traffic controller headset it came with is stone cold awesome.

5. Probably stop drinking 800 of my 2,400 daily calories. (Or at least cut back on the solid ones. Cutting out smoking has already jeopardized my legitimacy in Italian mommy circles. I'd better not risk things by lowering my tolerance, too.)

6. Set up my awesome!brand new!amazing! stroller that came today. Convince children it is a worthy trade off for having sold all their books, toys, car seats, and grandparents.

7. Say goodby to all the beautiful friends we've made here. I'm not going to lie, I got a leetle bit choked up after reading this piece written by a dear friend of ours. It's hard to believe that in less than two weeks, we're leaving for who knows how long, and we won't be seeing our children grow up together. This crazy journey we're embarking on is beautiful and exciting, but it isn't easy.

For more or less random, go get your takes on with Jen.

Say 'Ahhhh'

Yesterday was an auspicious day in the Uebbing household, and by that I mean every member of the adult team got a shower.

Also, we went for a dental triple threat mid-workday, in which 3/4 of our members climbed into the 'ol saddle for a scraping/buffing/flossing with piano wire session to the very reasonable tune of $340 bones.

Feeling stupidly optimistic and even a teensy bit excited about 'getting away from it all' at the spa waiting room complete with current editions of US Weekly and BHG and a Keurig and refrigerated bottled water and a clean, non-germ infested kiddy corner, I packed up both kids and swooped by the office to pick up Daddy for a real family outing. Because the family that x-rays together, stays together. Because they've seen all eachother's secrets...

But I digress.

No sooner had I settled in for a comfortable catch up session on Jessica Simpson's latest pregnancy and Selena and Bieber's latest reconciliation than Dave decided to excuse himself to the restroom sans kiddo.

Fine.

25 seconds later, JP and Joey were vying heroically to capture my undivided attention, one via frantic nursing and the other via squatting into business position and screaming 'clean and dry Mommy!' causing the receptionist's face to melt into a mask of anticipatory horror. I believe I fed her fears by asking Joey if he needed to use the potty, thus confirming her suspicions that he was indeed potty training and might not have been wearing the appropriate undergarments for hazard control purposes. (He was. We're not sadists.)

Nevertheless, I sprang into action, not wanting to alarm the receptionist further. Most likely flashing her with a stray boob shot, I scooped up the offending squatter and made for the door to the lobby elevator, where another bathroom awaited us. Joey screamed pleasantly about wanting to push the buttons, and I ignored him as we sprinted from the elevator towards the bathroom.

The thing is, he just isn't turning in the 100 meter times we'd like to see from him these days, in spite of his high carbohydrate and chocolate coconut milk diet. So I ought not have been surprised when I turned to usher him in the bathroom door and instead saw the elevator doors closing in front of his horrified face.

Mommeeeeeeeeeeee!

Um.

Joey? Joey!! Joey don't touch any of the buttons. (Frantically hitting the up button trying to call the elevator back)

Beep beep beeeeeeeeep. Hello, Denver county 911, what is your emergency, elevator occupants?

Shit.

As Joey wailed his woes into the listening ear of an unsuspecting emergency operator, I sprinted upstairs to catch the elevator on its return trip. Except it had gone to the basement.

Joey, get off when the elevator opens again! Can you hear me?

Mommeeeeeeeeeeeee, are you?! Mommy? 

Does anyone need emergency assistance at this location? I repeat, does anyone need emergency...

Suddenly I caught a glimpse of blonde hair in the open stairwell 3 floors below me. Tucking the large baby into a football hold, I sprinted down to subground level and scooped up one very naughty toddler into my free arm for a Heisman dash back to the foyer.

Hello? Does anybody need assistance?

Where was the damn elevator? It was still somewhere between floors, but the operator's increasingly concerned voice was ringing out for all office dwelling inhabitants to hear.

Crouching low next to the closed elevator doors, a baby under each arm, I whispered furtively that we were fine, that everyone was fine, before slinking back into the dentist's waiting room. Dave was looking at me quizzically, no doubt impressed at the sweat I'd managed to break in under 3 minutes.

Just squeezing in some cardio, dear, I snarled at him, tossing both kids his way before enthusiastically volunteering to go first.

The rest of the appointment went swimmingly, filled with blood curdling screams, awkward discussions of Italian real estate and gas prices with a gloved fist in my mouth, and snippets of truly enjoyable QT with my youngest, who perched disarmingly on my stomach while Dr. Cheerful scraped away and regailled me with tales of moms who had breastfed in the chair before, don't you worry about a thing.

Smiiiiiiile.

Naturally, Joey let exactly no one near his mouth, screamed like a wounded animal when deposited into the chair, and earned himself a super bouncy ball, a new toothbrush, and a gentle pat pat on the head and an invitation to come back and try again in a year or 6.

We'll almost definitely be back never.
 
On our merry way out, he called the bleeping fire department again.

Don't worry, I made Dave answer this time. I'm sure they didn't know it was the same negligent parent-offspring duo.

I'm sure.

Let Me Be Clear

(shudder) Can anyone utter or even think that phrase without hearing president smugbama sneering in their cranium?

Moving on.

When I said a social media fast was upon this house as Christmas time draws near, I guess I wasn't counting on the, um, reality that blogs are somewhat social and media related. But rest assured, dear readers...I couldn't go 23 days without blogging unless I were 9.25 months pregnant or severely and recently postpartum. You can check my archives, those are both conditions which must present in order for me to shut the front door and leave your eyes in peace.

For me, blogging is less social media and more cathartic, semi-rewarding use of the intellect. So basically the exact opposite of facebook, et al.

And who knows? Maybe with all my newfound free time away from PinFaceGram and the barrage of hopelessly unrealistic images of beauty, style, and hardwood floors sans old black beans and rice cereal fossils, I will engage in some deep, meaningful and non-political reflections on truth, goodness, and the meaning of life.

Maybe?

At any rate, rest assured you will be kept abreast of our ongoing saga to unload our worldly possessions, the infernal process of obtaining Italian visas, and the antics of a certain potty-resistant 2 year old and his chunky, immobile sidekick, JP the mellow. Who is just happy to be here. And is perhaps my favorite child. Shhhh...

Oh, and lots more pictures of me dressed in grown up clothes. At least one time per week.You are most welcome, in advance.

What I Wore Sunday

Linking up with Fine Linen and Purple again, even though Mass was an abysmal C- for one naughty 2 year old, and I didn't actually get photographed in my church clothes.

Moving on. All fancy photos courtesy of my handsome husband who encouraged me to frolic on the front lawn while our mysterious neighbor's roommate's wife (does that make sense? Me neither.) smoked sullenly against the side of her Chevy Fiesta and eyed our crazy up and down.

Casual hair tuck.

over-the-shoulder-squint

Not a Honda commercial. (Okay, maybe a little bit. 2003 Honda Accord LX, anyone? Our buyer fell through today.)

The decidedly-casual-not-for-Mass outfit details:
Top: Old Navy (thrifted)
Necklace: Target
Jeans: Express. Full price. Because of this.
Shoes: Blowfish (thrifted)
Tank: Kirkland's Best (because I'm worth it.)

Onward and upward to Advent.

I'll be off facebook, instacrack and all other non-work related forms of social media for the 'little Lent' of Advent, and boy oh boy do I need it. I have been a festering ball of stress and emotional instability all week long, culminating in a voluntary 4 am wake-up yesterday in anticipation of our somewhat underwhelming 'indoor garage sale,' in which we sold approximately 1/3 of our earthly possessions, which is 2/3 less than we needed to.

Trying so hard not to freak out every hour, on the hour, about what needs to get done, and instead focus on what is being done for us, i.e. by God, Who is actually in control of this and all situations.

Also trying verrrrry hard not to think about the 2/3 of a pack of Camel Lights resting somewhere in the bottom of my trash can. Stress habit or not, it was becoming something of a hindrance to my mile time and to my ability to smell not awful when Dave gets home from work.

The Best Laid Plans...

...Are often laid to waste by croupy babies, shrieking toddlers, and a house so filthy it can barely be recognized as 'indoors' as opposed to, I don't know, the back alley behind a dry cleaner's and a deli.

source

There are boxes of c-r-a-p everywhere. Someone came by and bought all our dressers on Monday night, so there are piles of clothes all over the place, too. I meant to do something about it during naptime yesterday, but instead I crouched in my disheveled bed amidst a pile of (clean? dirty?) laundry and watched the latest episode of Parenthood.

And it was good. Dammit, Grace, it was good. You were spot on. And I don't have time for that right now. 

I have like a million billion pages of lists for world domination that are scattered about the shanty, but most days all I manage to do is keep the children alive, (yesterday, just barely though. Never, ever take a toddler to have their blood drawn. Insist upon leeches or some other more civilized means of extraction.) get dinner made ordered, and whale around on the treadmill or rowing machine while I sweat bullets over the looming specter of no gym (read: no kid's club.)

We need visas. We need a plane ticket for my little sister, aka our temporary nanny for the first two months. We need longer term housing in Rome. We need like, 7 large suitcases and many, many more Tide To Go pens to fill them with. We need 6 months worth of prescriptions, another suit for Dave, piles of linens and towels to be vacuum sealed and magically shrunken down for easy transport. We need to sell the entire rest of our house and then, somehow, still live in it for another 5 weeks.

And my in-laws are coming for Christmas. And bringing the college kids. Indoor family camping trip, anyone?

I know this sounds like the worst kind of entitled whining, and I don't mean for it to. I am just fricking freaking out a teeny bit, and wondering how this is all going to come together. Plus, I normally garner a lot of peace and confidence from having an orderly, comfortable home to dwell in. When the outside of my world looks like chaos, the inside feels about the same.

So I guess the lesson in all this is, drink more wine, watch more reality tv, spend more time in prayer. Because while I feel completely out of control these days, the only thing that has really changed is the illusion of control. I no longer gotz it.

Game on, Advent. We're ready for you.

And as an added bonus, this year we will be celebrating Christmas in an actual stable.

Packing, Selling, Shopping, and Smoking

Oh. So much to do.

And yet...I've been spending hours just reading blogs, obsessively cleaning the bathroom (a losing battle with a potty-training male), wandering out back to smoke furtive Camel Lights during naptime (judging me yet?), and staring vacantly at my rapidly emptying house, rendered increasingly barren by the generous shopping habits of friends and acquaintances. Did you know you can sell pretty much anything on Facebook? Apparently.

I can't believe we're doing this. And yet, if feels so much like a direct invitation from the Lord, that we barely hesitated to give our affirmative answer.

Which was comforting when I was wiring $400 via Paypal to an old man named Giuseppe over lunch today, crossing my fingers that 33 days in an internet vacation rental would be sufficient time to find a 'real' apartment when we get there in January.

So here we sit, 1 day till Thanksgiving, 30 days till my 30th birthday, 34 days until Christmas, and 42 days until we leave the country...for good. For a while, at least. Oh, it's also our 3rd wedding anniversary. Today. I should totally cook dinner tonight to commemorate it.

Pardon me, I have to step outside for a moment. Ahem.

Did I mention that it is 67 degrees here in Denver on this Thanksgiving Eve? And that 'Thanksgiving Eve' is now apparently a thing? And that Costco was off the hizzy this morning and people already had that crazed, 'gotta snap up that last faux-cashmere bathmat' gleam in their eyes while wielding their semi-carts?

Cray-to-the-zay.

I should also mention that I saw an Obama logo on a car today - no words, just the weird sun rising symbol thing - and thought to myself 'that looks like the Eye of Sauron.' Then I called my sister to tell her about it, and she said 'are you going to write a blog post about it?'

Maaaaaybe.

Or maybe not. Sorry for the hot mess that this is. You should see my kitchen right now. You should see my stretched out, stained and ill-fitting maternity spanx-y cami right now. You should see the new James Bond movie this weekend, I've heard. You should send a babysitter over our way so I can see it, too.

Now if you will excuse me, I am going to be cheersing it up in about 9 minutes, when it will officially be 5'clock on the East Coast. Anyone care to join me for a virtual IPA and a beleaguered sigh over long-fought naptime battles?

I'll be back tomorrow with fewer words, more pictures, and lots of thrift store treasures on dem hips so Grace can see me in big girl clothes for the festive occasion. You're welcome, in advance.

Cheers!