The 5 stages of moving (with kids)

I imagine there are worse things than moving with children. Being buried alive, contracting giardia, getting stuck in spinning class behind the person who ate onions and garlic for dinner last night--these are all worse than moving with children. Moving with children is a special blend of punishment, though, mixing chaos with emotions, pouring it over the ice of having to clean everything, and not being able to find the umbrella for your drink because someone probably packed it with the snorkeling gear. We are nearly at the end of our move, the second move we have made with children, and I have come to recognize that, mirroring the 5 stages of grief, there are

The 5 stages of moving:

1. The Nostalgic Stage You spend precious time gathering and then reflecting on the significance of each possession, thinking about the time you bought that grass skirt and coconut bra on your Hawaiian honeymoon. Nevermind that you will never again be the size you were on your honeymoon. This skirt/coconut ensemble is to be an heirloom, treasured by generations to come! It shall be folded and wrapped in tissue paper and placed in a hope chest, layered between memories and rainbows and lucky rabbit feet.

2. The Selling Stage You have set aside a pile of items you believe to be of great value, that will sell high on e-bay or at a premium on craigslist. You are overjoyed to be doing this because you will net so much money, which you will help defray your moving costs! You have staged each Laura Ashley bedspread in a romantic environment with soft lighting and are just waiting for that big offer to come through!

3. The Minimalist Stage You are relishing this newfound simplicity as you prepare for this move. You find it so refreshing to live minimally, with the majority of your belongings now packed away and neatly marked with the name of the room into which they will be unloaded in your new domicile. You are feeling so much lighter! You are practically Thoreau!

4. The Resistance Stage Your children are starting to resent all their toys being packed away. All of craigslist is flaking out on you, and Laura Ashley didn't even get one bid on e-bay!? The more boxes you pack, the more your yet-to-be-packed stuff seems to multiply. You are starting to lose memory of what has been packed and what you haven't packed and what you actually own or what you gave away through craigslist. You do random headcounts throughout the day just to make sure your children who had taken to playing in boxes aren't actually sealed in.

5. The 'I don't give a flying UHaul' stage You are freaking out. It seems Oriental Trading has exploded in every drawer, with useless trash made in China standing in the way of your move. You have taken to just throwing random crap into any box, bag, or Barbie dreamhouse that will contain it. You are convinced your sanity is buried somewhere deep, within the Christmas decorations, perhaps? Or was it with the coconut bra? Your spouse says, We are not moving the crazy with us, so you throw everything away, vowing to recycle for the rest of your life to reduce the huge carbon footprint you have just made on the way to the landfill. In the end, you move. And there you are, in a new place with all your old stuff. Join us next time for "the 5 stages of moving in." Right now, we're still on stage 1: denial.

On taking my kids to B-Dub

The only reason I knew of this establishment in our little downtown walking district is because Loverpants had taken the kids there before and called it a successful time. There were reports of children (whom I birthed) willfully consuming food matter in a restaurant, and actually behaving themselves in a public place, versus behaving like those dancing noodles that are often scene flagging your attention at car washes or the like.

So I suppose you could say this was all Loverpants' fault.

A few weeks ago, the kids and I had frolicked at a playground in the afternoon and were henceforth requiring sustenance. I was in the kind of mood that one experiences who spends many days in a row with people who basically eat only 4 foods, not 4 food groups but just 4 foods (cereal, fruit, veggie turkey slices, mac n' cheese, rinse and repeat) gets in where she cannot SHE CANNOT. Not anymore. I was feeling faint and wanting to just sit and order from a menu and then for that food to miraculously appear on a tray before me. My stars! I think this might not just be a stardust fantasy, but, lo, I believe such a place actually does exist!

So, my children ventured once more to the magical emporium known as Buffalo Wild Wings, this time with their mother. I remembered that Loverpants had mentioned the kids ate well when he took  them to B-Dub. Soft pretzels and chicken wings and french fries--oh my! As I am a vegetarian, I don't usually go to places whose main export is the fried poultry, n'ah mean? So, this was my maiden voyage to B-Dub.

The place was, as advertised, and you have my full permission to roll your eyes so far back into your skull that you actually gag on them, because I really was happy to be there, n0t because I like sports or beer or chicken, but I like cheap food that my kids will eat. Judge if you must.

We ordered and all was going well. Until...

Until this man who looked to be a waiter because he was wearing a B-Dub jersey sidled up to our table.

He just kept chatting with me. It went something like this:

Hey, how are you guys doing? We're good, thank you!

So...do you guys come here often? Thinking: What is that? A pick-up line for my 6 and 3 year-old? Yeah, buddy. They're regulars here. Never miss a Braves game on the big screen.

What did you order? Thinking: Oh gosh. Is he asking me what I ordered to drink because he thinks I'm a single mom and wants to send me over a pity drink?

Well, I just wanted to tell you about a new position we created here... Thinking: Oh he DEFINITELY thinks I am a single mom and wants to offer me a pity job! Oh this is the worst!

See, so I'm the new guest experience Captain, and it's my job to make sure you're having a great time! Thinking: Ack! He's a cruise director for B-Dub!

So if you want to try a new wing flavor or change the TV channel, just give me a shout, all right? I am so embarrassed. For him. For me. For humanity. 

The good Captain then wrote down his name for me, which, once again, felt like some flirtypants leaving his number for me on the check, call me maybe? Ugh.

Then I looked over at a table of high school kids in their prom attire. And as if going to B-Dub for prom dinner didn't strike me as odd enough, the kids were sitting at one end of the table and their parents were sitting at the other.  I thought that situation seemed very Duggar-style but what do I know? Times, they are a-changin'...Patrons can't order wings without a shaman named John the Guest Experience Captain helping them navigate the menu. High schoolies can't go anywhere without their helicopter parents.

This was all hitting me at once, and so I wondered, dear readers. Seen anything new and exciting lately? Do share....

The story that makes my students so embarrassed for me

I didn't have an e-mail address before college. Why would I have needed one? If I needed to invite a ton of people over to the beatnik party at my mom's basement, I could just call all those people. Which I did. Call all those people whose phone numbers I had memorized.  And then when my friend Dave recorded the beatnik sessions in my mom's basement, he just sent me the cassette tape of it in the mail. Not as an mp3 attachment. Also, we didn't have internet at my mom's house when I was in high school, so what was the point, anyway. It seemed to me that the kids who had internet at home, AOL, which was shortened from America Online (so cool), just frittered away all of their time in chat rooms with strangers who went by the name PeachFuzz234 or AussieBabe49. 1996. Life and times.

When I got to college, I got an e-mail address and would write the whole e-mail in the subject line. The vastness of the world wide web was skull-splitting for me. I watched as people could gamely conduct web searches and deduce what other movies certain stars had appeared in, rather just wondering for a few months if that was really Drew Barrymore as the little sister in E.T. and finally getting the movie out at the library and confirming, wow, yes, that really does appear to be a young Drew Barrymore.

That first semester of college, I bought a new desktop computer that occupied 75% of my desk. It took me roughly three weeks to assemble it and to get the internet hooked up and my friend Steve from the floor below visited my room daily just to make fun of my total grandma approach to technology. Hi Steve. Hugsies.

But by far, the moment that most crystallizes how I was a child who came of age just as the internet was emerging as our mainstream information source, it is this:

I walked down the hall to the bathroom and stopped short at the door of my hallmate Keira's room. The door was open and she and her roomie Kathy were cracking up about something, but what caught my attention was a piece of paper hanging from Kathy's bookshelf. On the paper was a picture of 3 marshmallow chicks peeps. It was clearly a print-out from your standard issue deskjet printer. But I just stood there, wondering how this got there, like they were harboring a bona fide unicorn in their dorm room. There was a picture of marshmallow peeps on a piece of paper. And Keira and Kathy had printed it out themselves.

My cognitions had ground to a halt.  I could not understand.

This was where the neurons started misfiring for me. Because, I understood how things got printed out of a printer from a computer, say, like from a word processing document. But how did the marshmallow peeps get into the computer and then get through the printer and onto paper? What did I get on my SATs? What? Why do you ask?

I asked Keira, How did you do that?

With a printer, she said.

I know, but how did you get the picture of the peeps? Did you take the picture?

No, I just found them on a website.

You found them on a ...

Then you printed them out and now there are marshmallows cut into bunny shapes dipped in sugar in a one-dimensional jpeg on a piece of recycled paper.

My world was never. Never. The same.