No one adjusts more poorly to change than I do (except maybe my Dad, and now we know who to blame for my plight). It's true. I hate change. Yes, I know, hate is a strong word (my mom taught me that). But, for some reason, it takes me a very long time (like a year or more) to feel comfortable with and open to change. Even when it's a good change.
I'm one of those people that you dread taking to a new restaurant. So many choices ... how could I possibly pick something from a menu without first reading about all of my options, which also includes asking the waiter/waitress (server, if you want to go PC on me) what they're serving for soup of the day, which you should never order if it's clam chowder. Clam chowder at a semi-fast food restaurant is not worth the calories. And we all know that calories are not to be wasted. They can be perfectly expended on something very worthwhile, like orange and green creme pumpkins. But why are we talking about candy when I was about to divulge an update on our move to Spokane? (Oh yeah, it's because I had that tasty dream about them the other night ... Mmmm! Succulent, caramel-flavored ... sorry.)
So, as I was saying, it's been a month and I really love our house. I mean love. I mean, I didn't know someone could love an object as much as I love this house. I mean, I finally grasp the logic behind the second commandment (thou shalt have no idols ... in case you forgot). Or maybe it was the seventh commandment because I could almost marry this house, except I would never trade it for my husband, so let's stick to the second commandment. Yeah, no worshiping this house. I should get that painted all fancy on a carved piece of wood and hang it above our mantle -- just to keep me on the straight and narrow.
I like my street, too. And my neighbors are friendly, albeit somewhat sparse. And we've been to church a few times here already, and they're all real nice folk, too. But it's still not home. Not home like Home Sweet Home kinda home.
But I've got the kids, and they're the best company I could ask for. (Even though I get sick of hearing myself say, "Put that down." "Don't hit your sister." "Quit fighting." "Eat your food." "I said, 'Eat your food!'") Because amidst all of the typical parenting stuff, there's the tickling fests, and the Uno games, and the story times, and Scotty spitting bubbles (so cute!). And, for some odd reason that should never be allowed during intern year, we have Clint more than we ever have before, which is significant to note because, believe it or not, I'm quite a homebody. Yep, given the choice to pack up and go to Disneyland or stay home and make brownies, I choose brownies (I swear, the sugar has no influence on this decision). Or say I could go to the Celine Dion concert in Vegas or watch You've Got Mail for the 77th time on my own TV, guess which one it would be? Crazy, but I'd pick to stay home (partly because I can't remember if Celine's show is still playing; however I might be persuaded to venture across our friendly northern border to catch Celine singing in French). Now, you may not have known any of this about me, and that would only be because my adorable, opposite of homebody-type husband shuttles me (and the kids, of course!) all over town (and the country, too, come to think of it).
But it's the times that Clint's at work, and the boys are asleep, and Nicole's playing Polly Pocket in her treehouse (I'm totally invited to play, too, it's just that Polly Pocket isn't my thing), that I think to myself, Living here is so much lonelier than I imagined. I haven't yet established a shopping buddy (can't imagine why ... me plus three ... hmm). Or found a friend that I can call and not have to chit-chat with about nothing first. You know, some people (like your mom), you can call and get down to business without asking how their day is going, and how they are liking their summer vacation so far ... You can just call and when they answer you ask, "How do you get a blood stain out?" And when they tell you the answer, you can hang up. And if you forget thirty seconds later, you can call back and ask again.
I suppose that since this is the first time that Clint and I have lived so far away from family that we can't visit on one tank of gas, it's normal to have these feelings. Before we moved here, a friend told me that when she and her family had to move far away, they became closer. She said that would happen to us, too, and she was right. Nicole doesn't have any steady friends in our neighborhood yet (although she did meet a really cute boy who's the son of one of Clint's colleagues ... more on him later), so she and Grant have become great playmates -- even amongst the daily bickering. And I'm hoping that when Nicole and Grant grow up, they'll remember how they used to swim together in our dinky, little pool (more on this later, too), or share Nicole's queen bed at night to watch movies and happen to both fall asleep there, or water the garden with their water guns, or color pictures together. Or any of the cute things that they do together. I hope they remember this time when all they/we had was each other. (Although I don't see how remembering any part of their childhood could be difficult, given the amount of pictures I take.) And then when they remember how much they loved to be with each other as children, I hope they long to maintain their relationship as adults. And I hope they want their kids to play together, and giggle together. (And if they don't want any of this, I hope get a dusty book off their shelves that contains this blog entry; and when they read it, I hope they'll be best friends again, like when they were kids, if only for the sake that it was their mother's dying wish.)
And then, as my niece Quincy might add, I hope they want to build a mansion and move all of their families in together. And then no one would ever have to live without any of their family. Now that's a change I might be able to make smoothly.
