Last week we decided to push back the date of our Big Move from the first of May to the middle of June. It’s too complicated to explain, except to say that the timing works out better this way for my family. The other change is that I’ll be going on my own to get a jump-start on the job/house hunt while my husband and kids are packing up and making the drive north–my mom was going to join me, but my grandma is too frail to leave at the moment.

So, mid-June. It’s only six more weeks. I’ve waited fifteen years for this move, what’s six more weeks, right? That’s what the adult in me says. But the child in me is taking it hard. I’m doing the noodle–you know, that exasperated slump your three-year-old will perform at the end of a long day, when you discover that all the bones in her shoulders have suddenly dissolved and she’s become slippery and impossible to pick up. Soon my mouth will go square and I’ll start whingeing, You can’t make me . . .

And this morning’s email brought one more small disappointment: The receptionist is out for the day, and guess who’s covering the front desk.

Waaahhhh . . . you can’t make me . . .

Any small disappointments of your own you’d like to share?


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