Moving, as we learned yesterday, is hard. It's all well and good to get excited about a new home with a spiral staircase going around a tree trunk (welcome to Rivendell), a wood-burning stove in a kitchen, a sunroom, and so on. (Those are three different houses I just described, not all the same one.) But when you sit down and find you have 17 half-full bottles of various bathroom condiments (why do I ever go to Target?), and that's just on the top shelf of one of your bathroom closets, you begin to wonder why moving seems like such a good idea.
John is coming to this realization. When informed yesterday that yes, some of his magazines that have been hanging around for years will now have to go, he started this silent weeping that means all bets are off. To his credit, he does not use this power lightly. And as an aside, it's fascinating to watch. He stands there bravely, then his eyes narrow, and then it seems like his whole face starts leaking like a basement wall. (But, uh, not like our basement wall. Ahem.) His lips pull back as he tries not to make a noise, and then I see he's not playing around, and it's time to sit down and have a Talk.
We talked about moving, and change, and growing, and cleaning, and so on, and it must have dragged on, because finally he said, "Why did you have to say you'd take this job in the first place?"
Hey now! When a kid asks a question like that, it's easy to answer like he's 25, and get snippy. Sometimes it's hard to remember he's six.
So I answered, and he went up to clean, and we went on with our day, but I have to say that moving when he was nine months old was a lot easier.