We’re “supposed to” move next weekend.
I say “supposed to” because I have done absolutely nothing to start this process.
Like nothing. Zero. Zip. Zilch.
I woke up today (after a stupid sleepless night) and reality hit. Not the reality that I have to pack up my house full of crap, but the reality that I am going to be moving away from here.
I got sad. Really sad. So I took my sad self over to Sally’s and I sat in her big red chair and cried and said things like “I don’t want to leave,” “I don’t want to move,” “wa-wa-wa.” And she said she doesn’t want to talk about it cause it will make her sad. This stinks.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to learn a new city and navigate new streets. I don’t want to have to put on a happy face when my kids are sad and miss this home and tell them it’ll be Okay when all I will really want to do is pack us up and move back here.
Maybe I’m feeling this way because I’ve done it before and I know what it’s like. I know the challenges. I know the wave of emotions (from myself and my kids). I’m going to have to smile and make new friends even if I don’t feel like it. I’m going to have to step out of my comfort zone and be an example for my children. I don’t want to do that, but I will. Cause that’s what moms do.
So, yeah. I don’t want to move.
I would rather cross my arms and stomp my feet and pout.
Because I’m mature like that. (hey, don’t judge.)