Things are bit sore around here today: backs, arms, and legs all ache from lifting and heaving boxes into our PODS container. I am afraid to sit for too long lest my muscles seize up and stick me in this chair for good. I don't even like this chair that much. Ibuprofen has become a part of our regular nutrition schedule; without it, like the Tin Man himself, we would simply cease to move.
Harrison and Emma are out of sorts. They understand at a basic level that we are moving. They get mildly excited and wound up when we pack boxes, seeming almost too enthusiastic to throw in their favorite stuffed bunny (Silly Bob has been rescued from the doom of storage several times), but Emma cried when we took the spare twin bed out of her room. Elation melts into a puddle, giggles sometimes end in tears, and then the tears float back up into wide smiles and eager anticipation. This is hard on all of us, but the little ones who have no control feel it in waves. We have no way of explaining to them, in terms they will understand, that we are making this move for their benefit. Yes, we'll get the thrill of living in a house we find fantastic, but the real reasons for making the move lie with the futures of our children. But you can't tell that to a four year old, nor a two year old.
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