An International Move and 11 Boxes of Books (Two of Which Were Shipped Across the Pond)

I both love and hate moving. OK, love is a strong word, but in the absence of another way to express the excitement of anticipating a new life, I'll stick with love. But I hate it, because I stink at it. No other way to say that.

We've moved again. You'd think, after moving around a couple times, that I'd get used to it, or be better prepared for the emotions that come along with it. But I'm not. I know enough to expect the turmoil, but not enough to embrace it or push through it in any sort of a logical fashion.

We've moved home, back to the United States. I'm so thankful to be here, but it's complicated . . . more complicated than I usually admit. Twice we've moved to places completely out of our element, and twice we've moved it back to the desert when the time came to carry on (graduation will do that, you know). I'm always grateful to move home, to the familiar and to our families, because I love them tons (ummm, sisters!) -- but I'm also prone to feeling a little down once the job is done and we're halfway settled in (which is where we're at now). I miss the adventure -- the excitement of new places, of learning the rhythm of a new city, of finding my way in the unfamiliar (as long as I'm walking or riding and not driving, thank you very much). I still miss Chicago, and now I add Oxford to the list.

It hurts. It aches. I'm not sure when we're gonna be back to England. Darn airfare at a thousand bucks a pop virtually guarantees that it'll be several years, if not a decade or more. Did we live it up? Did we appreciate everything we experienced? I hope so. We tried.

I regret not going to Cornwall ("Doc Martin," I'm blaming you). But I'm thankful for every time I caught the train to Bath and for every family trip to London (even the really cold one when we couldn't hail a cab back to Paddington Station and ended up walking for miles along the Thames with cranky kids, hoping that we'd have better luck by Westminster Abbey. For the record, we didn't.)

I think settling in a bit will help. I still have more boxes than I want admit left to unpack.

So, yeah, you know you might be in denial when you pull items out of boxes, use them, and then return them right back to the box . . . .

That might be what I've been doing with my books.

Perhaps it's time to anchor the bookshelf to the wall (I'm a bit paranoid like that), unpack the boxes, and settle in.

Home, in time, will come. That's what I keep telling myself. And my books will help.

Fly Me to the Moon

My momma-heart is pretty much bursting with pride today.

My boy, my great bear, read his first book today -- all by himself.

He couldn't contain his excitement! After finishing the final words, he began galloping around the house, book in hand.

I caught him up into a great bear hug, and passed him over to his dad for more of the same.

He reads. My boy's growing up.

Oh help! Oh no! It's a Gruffalo!

Bless his heart, the Gruffalo lacks a little something in the looks department, don't you think?

When we first arrived in England, I was puzzled by the Gruffalo's prevalence; why would (otherwise) loving mothers and fathers send their kiddos to school with this creature plastered all over their backpacks and lunchboxes?

I resisted reading for months and months (mostly because the book was never to be found at the library) . . . but once I did, I realized the error of my ways.

So, I'm here to shout it out and set the record straight for my fair reading friends . . . or something like that.

Moving on.

Here's what I think. (Consider it an overly formal summary of the work and my thoughts thereon. Sometimes, in the midst of zest and zeal, I get a little too serious for my own good. How's that for self-aware? Aren't you proud of me?)

Moving on, once more (for reals this time).

"The Gruffalo" is a clever, rollicking tale of an ingenious mouse who outsmarts the hungry inhabitants of a "deep dark wood." The little mouse scares off a fox, an owl, and a snake with his colorful descriptions of the Gruffalo, with whom he claims to have lunch plans.

But then, the Gruffalo appears, and then mouse has to use all his wits to escape the Gruffalo's rumbling tummy.

The story is told in a spectacularly rhythmic rhyme. (I love it when I find books that I can read with the proper rhythm the first time though; no awkward recitations or creative vocal interpretations necessary to make it work). My three kiddos (ages two, five, and seven) are all captivated by the tale, and join in throughout the story, chanting their favorite lines:

"Silly old Fox! Doesn't he know,
There's no such thing as a gruffalo?"

"But who is this creature with terrible claws
And terrible teeth in his terrible jaws?
He has knobbly knees and turned-out toes
And a poisonous wart at the end of his nose.
His eyes are orange, his tongue is black;
He has purple prickles all over his back."

"Oh help! Oh no!
It's a gruffalo!"

Frightful appearance notwithstanding, we've got a thing for the Gruffalo.

My Personal Kryptonite (Or, How I Tempt Fate on Thursday Mornings)

Behold, the Oxford Antiques Fair at Gloucester Green:

The bookstalls . . . .

 . . . otherwise known as 'my personal kryptonite.'

The books call to me, and my will to resist just zaps away.  It might be the musty paper, the cloth and leather bindings, the frayed bits of bound ribbon bookmark. Or maybe it's the antiquated illustrations and the scrawled, inked inscriptions.

Whatever the cause, I'm powerless before it.

Yeah, I really should stay away. But I don't. Something (super?) within me stubbornly insists on testing my own strength.

So, I'll continue to tempt fate (and, more than likely, lose) on Thursday mornings. I'm OK with that, even though I know I'll have to ship the books home when I move across the Atlantic, in just a few short months.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. That's what I say. (OK, maybe someone else said it first, but whoever it was, they had a point).

Here are a few of my favorite finds:

City Pop

I never knew I was a city girl until I moved to Chicago -- Hyde Park, South Side, to be exact. 2002.

I loved the bite, the flavor of the city; it was a sort of watch-your-back deep-dish pepperoni-pizza-pie existence. I remember lying snug in bed, the window just behind my head open, the cool air and the sounds of the city drifting in as I drifted out.

Chicago will always be home to our family; our oldest girl took her first steps on ancient vinyl tile up on the ninth floor. On a clear day, we could watch sailboats on Lake Michigan, and hear trains speed by on the way to the Loop. We ran errands on foot, freezing our buns off in the winter, and soaking in the sunshine of spring. Chicago was ours.

My heart ached when it was time to move on; three years sped by. But before we left the city, I found a book at the Chicago Public Library that perfectly captured the vibrance, the rhythm, the cacophony of city life.

The book: "Listen to the City" by Rachel Isadora. City sounds, scenes, and pop art to boot. A perfect read for city kids (and those who wish they were).