Can you believe this?  

How about this?!   

 Holy guacamole! Our stuff actually came!! And the movers showed up!!! Everything happened like it was supposed to!!!!

(Please ignore the superfluity of exclamation points and sentence-ending prepositions. Last time I tried this my stuff was delayed for three weeks and I lived in a hotel.)

And to top off this embarrassment of riches:  

(For those of you using Freedom Units, these are highs of mid-thirties to forties.)

Sunny? In Portland? For a week straight??

Guess who slept in Portland last night?!

(Spoiler alert: The US border let us across. We got super lucky and got post-Ghost of Christmas Future-“Buy the Cratchitts a goose” Scrooge instead of “Bah Humbug” Scrooge and were waved through with a few extra questions, a sob story, some praying grandparents back home, and a partridge in a pear tree. Actually, getting out of Canada was easier than getting in – first time for everything, I suppose.)

Two full days of driving, oy! Can we just take a moment and all congratulate these kids for being amazeballs road warriors?

(Can you spot The Boy in the second pic?)

For those of us in the front, it was a whole lotta this:

And, to give him his due, also a whole lotta this:

The Husband wins “Super Driver of the Year” award and also “Super Car-Warning-Light-Interpreter of the Year” award. Plus a Lifetime Achievement Award for “Going to the Dealership in Bozeman at the Crack of Dawn to Get Super Obscure Fluid Required by Diesel Cars Plus Adaptors Allowing for Hotel Parking Lot Application.”

(It’s not an award that’s given out all that frequently.)

But after 26 hours of driving, we made it! And there was a housewarming/late Christmas present waiting for me:

(If you come for dinner, I promise I’ll chop your onions singing Lionel Richie…)

Our “beds” right now consist of plush new carpeting + sleeping bags (kids) and a single air mattress (grownups), so we’re definitely looking forward to the arrival of our stuff tomorrow. I have a guaranteed delivery, which means probably about a 30% chance given what I know about moving companies….

The Husband went straight back to work today and the kids and I are headed out for food procurement since our cupboards are pretty bachelor-tastic right now. And we need to remedy this situation:

(Truly – can you believe this was my first cup of Portland coffee?? Don’t tell – I’ll be kicked out for sure.)

Setting: 11:30 at night. A remote border outpost. A car rolls up to the guard house.

Border guard: Hello, bonjour.

Peitricia Mae: Hi!! [Hands over three tattered birth certificates]

BG: [eyes narrow] Do you have photo ID to go with these?

PM: No sorry I, uh, packed…oh wait! I have a driver’s license!

BG: Yes, that would be photo ID.

PM: [Rummages] Here you go!!

BG: Where do you live?

PM: Minneapolis.

BG: Purpose of your visit?

PM: Home for Christmas! [thinks, maybe I should tone down the exclamation points]

BG: And where’s “home”?

PM: Minneapolis! Oh wait, you mean for CHRISTMAS! Then Steinbach. We’re going home to Steinbach for Christmas.

BG: Relationship of everyone in the car?

PM: They’re my kids.

BG: [taking in frazzled crazy-looking woman driving car packed to the max for”just” a short trip, and two disheveled kids and concludes the obvious] You the sole guardian?

PM: Uh, no.

BG: Do you have a letter of permission from their father to travel with them?

PM: Um, no. But he’s coming to meet us for Christmas. He lives in Portland! [curses errant exclamation point]

BG: You’re gonna have to go park under the canopy and come inside.

PM: [sigh] Of course. Be right in.

[PM parks, quickly memorizes husband’s cell phone number, drags disheveled yawning kids inside – one wearing shorts – and presents herself to second border guard.]

BG2: We’ve asked you to come in because you don’t have any documentation from your husband giving you permission to travel with your children. Do you have a phone number where we can call him?

PM: [proudly] Yes! [writes it down and passes paper back]

BG2: [eyes narrow] Is there a name to go with this?

PM: Oh yeah, ha ha, I guess you’ll need that! [writes name]

BG2: [wearily] Alright ma’am, go have a seat. We’ll give him a call.

[Two minutes later]

BG2: Ok, ma’am, your husband confirmed everything. But next time, please remember that you need a letter of consent.

PM: [babbling with relief] Yes! Thank you so much! I’m so sorry! I’m so glad you checked! We’ll remember next time! Uh, come in kids, let’s go!

[Family wedges themselves back into car, and taillights disappear into Canadian wilderness]

End scene

I was doing SO well! I had a huge to-do list with multiple check boxes for each day. I re-homed a ton of items, arranged a long-distance move, kept the fam fed and at school/work single-handedly, and packed up the whole house.

I remembered EVERYTHING. Christmas gifts. The Husband’s parka just in case we hit snow in the mountains. Timers for the lights so our house looks occupied. Refunding my co-op membership.

One thing. I forgot only ONE thing.

Our passports and green cards.

Somewhere in a late night/early morning 4 am fog, I managed to pack our border-crossing documentation. By the time I realized it, the movers were long gone and Box #19 was buried in the depths of the moving trailer.

Let’s just remind ourselves of that trailer, yes?

  
There was no way of finding that box. Not without calling the movers back, saying “oops, my bad,” and asking them to unload and reload. Which I very much doubt they would do for free.

After the initial panic, we came up with options. We did have birth certificates (thank you Jesus!) so we were pretty sure we could get into Canada. Getting back into the US was the bigger issue.

Option 1 was to stay stateside and not attempt any crossing. Which, no. Because Christmas.

Option 2 was to go home for Christmas, but drive West through Canada. Then the undocumented immigrants would squat with some very kind relatives while The Husband (who had his docs) would go down and meet the moving trailer, find the documents, and come rescue us.

Option 3 was to go home for Christmas and then throw ourselves on the mercy of the US border guards and claim stupidity.

So the kids and I decided to chance it, shoehorned ourselves into the car and headed north…

Join us in our next installment of “How Could You Remember to Bring The Kids’ Advent Calendars but Forget Your Green Cards” where PM tangles with the Canadian border!

Oy! Every time I do this I think, “I don’t remember it being this much work last time!”

In our last post, I was feeling chipper and ready and confident. But, oh, there were so many boxes to pack and so little time….

(This is just the kitchen)

I packed…and packed…and packed…. Watched the clock hit 10 pm…midnight…three am…and then realized I was just going to have to put on a stiff pot of coffee and take a shower and pretend I’d slept.

(Reminded me of when I had babies – oh, I am too old for this!)

The movers arrived promptly at 8:50 and they were amazeballs. Five guys, four and a half hours, and they worked like fiends. Super strategic fiends, because they were Tetrising my entire household into this:

(See the piano on the left-hand side tied to the wall?)

My plan after they left had been to clean and button up the house, but I still had a bunch of closets to go through and a final Goodwill run to make. And  a nap to take because oh my.

So cleaning began in earnest on Sunday morning. Fortunately, I had a clean-up crew:

I’m so proud of these two. They dismantled beds, cleaned bathrooms, wiped cupboards, hauled garbage bags to the curb, vacuumed stairs, collapsed boxes, and swept/mopped all the floors.

Seven hours of hardcore cleaning later, we were done! The Boy said a quick prayer of thanks for the house and a blessing on the new owners, we gave the neighbors one last hug, loaded up the car, and then headed off for Canadaland.

Stay tuned for part 2 (in which Peitricia Mae realizes that she accidentally packed the passports and green cards in the moving truck….).

Last day of packing (whether I like it or not)! The house is in that shambles state of storm before the calm….

(Why yes, that *is* my Robert-Downey-Jr.-dressed-as-a-17th -century-Russian-general throw pillow. General Bill Murray is in the other bag.)

I feel like I’m doing okay. I’ve got miles to go before I sleep, but it’s nothing dogged determination and plenty of packing tape won’t get me through. Plus, I’ve got quite a tangible goal; this bad boy showed up on Wednesday:

Pretty impressed at how that driver managed to thread the needle of our driveway. I refuse to back down it in a car, much less back up it in a big behemoth like that. So glad I don’t have to drive it!

Also glad I don’t have to load it – that’s what strapping young men are for. They’re showing up tomorrow morning at 9 am sharp, so if it’s not packed by then, it gets left on the “Free” pile at the curb. Which is why the generals are long packed – I’ve got my priorities straight.

 

Which edition to keep?

Usually I’d say Broadview Press version FTW, but the Riverside Middlemarch is well-thumbed for a reason…

(Also: am aware there was a hashtag in this post. #sorrynotsorry)

 
 (Please don’t judge.)

You know what I highly recommend? Moving across the country over the Christmas holidays.

I’m 100% serious about this.

(Think I have enough boxes?)

Also, if you can manage to do it during an El Nino year so it’s 5 degrees and snowless on the Saturday when you are cleaning out the garage, so much the better.

Now I’m not trying to suggest any of this is *fun*. Oh my, no. There’s a whole lot of grossness that comes with moving. It’s exhausting and messy and definitely not Friday-night-let’s-just-relax-and-watch-Netflix-and-eat-tacos friendly.

(An aside: Anyone else frustrated that “Netflix and chill” doesn’t mean what you think it should mean?)

However, while moving isn’t fun, there is a lot that *is* good about it. First, you have to touch All.The.Things in a very short period of time. Those of you who’ve fallen under the Kondo spell will know the theory that the slow-but-steady approach to decluttering is doomed to failure because you never get any kind of payoff and instead constantly feel like you’re trudging along. Well, there’s nothing like an upcoming move date by which you have to have EVERYTHING out of the house to light a bit of a fire.

The other good thing about having to get everything out is that you can’t do that thing where you declutter the dining room by putting the crap in the laundry room and then you declutter the laundry room by putting the crap in the basement until it’s just clutter musical chairs. Nope, every room has to be clear, so I’m forced to make all those decisions of keep vs. toss vs. re-home immediately.

The whole cross-country aspect is also super helpful. When you’re paying by the foot for your moving trailer, you can really determine how valuable your stuff is to you. Is it worth paying to transport this barely-used (because middle-schooler) percussion set across the country? No, it is not. Craigslist that bad boy. It is also not worth transporting the box of financial records from 1998-2000 (which in our case is mostly Dairy Queen receipts and student loan forms) that you’ve carted around with you forever because…well, I’m not actually sure why.

Finally, the benefits of moving at Christmastime are two-fold. There’s nothing like having to touch every single thing you own and decide its fate to make you realize that you have TOO. MUCH. STUFF. You suddenly see that things that you don’t use are actually a HUGE liability. That old bike that’s just forgotten in the shed? Doesn’t really affect you until you have to get rid of it and suddenly you’re trying to figure out what the heck to do with it. (Again, Craigslist. I have met so many random strangers in parking lots over these past weeks.)

And then there’s celebrating Christmas itself. The decorations need to be packed up right away, so no point in going all out. Presents need to fit into the car, so there’s no big aquarium under that tree. The freezer needs to be cleaned out, so no need to fill it with baking.

In fact, this is probably my best Advent since the ones when I was pregnant (because nothing says “anticipation” like a big ol’ belly full of baby). This one is about waiting and preparation and feeling unsettled and uprooting and getting ready…exactly how we’re supposed to feel but all too often we forget when we bury it under concerts and to-do’s and oh-crap-we-need-to-get-Aunt-Matilda-something-since-she-got-us-that-tea-cozy-last-year.

So yes, by all means, move over Christmas if you can swing it. But I’d caution against the kind where you are the only adult in the house and have to do all the packing/moving logistics/final doctor appointments yourself while finishing up your 2015 projects at work while selling your house while paying enough attention to your kiddos to keep Family Services from showing up – that’s advanced-level moving. You’re only allowed to attempt that if you’ve already moved eleventeen times and you know exactly how this all works. Fortunately, this isn’t my first rodeo.

You know the joke: “My husband wanted a cat but I didn’t want a cat. So we compromised and got a cat.”

Replace “a cat” with “to move” and you’ve pretty much got it.

For us, this move has been a long (secretive) time coming, but given the startled pause and then “PORTLAND?!” that I get when I tell people, I’m guessing it’s coming out of left field for most of you. So, some ‘splaining.

A long time ago, two barely legal high school sweethearts got married. In the girl’s mind, this was just the next logical step on her “marry an engineer, become a teacher in Hanover, settle near Steinbach (maybe go so far as Winnipeg), have four children, and live out her days on the prairies” long-range plan. At the time, the boy thought this was just fine with him.

But as they grew (up, apart, and then back together), the sweethearts realized that they approached life very differently. For her, it was about rootedness and perennials and predictability. For him, it was about adventure and novelty and excitement.

It’s pretty challenging to find a life plan that meets the needs of two such disparate outlooks. But what seems to be working is a relatively quiet pace of life for her spiced up  with occasional (and often solo) adrenaline-filled adventures and travels for him when all the “oh, let’s just stay in tonight where it’s cozy” gets to be too much.

However, when it comes to where we live and for how long, that’s a tougher one to compromise. To his great credit, he’s stayed here for several years longer than he wanted – not because he doesn’t like Minneapolis, but because he likes the thought of “what’s next” more. And to my credit, I was pretty quick to give my blessing to a non-Minneapolis job search when I could see that he was starting to get really squirmy.

(Marriage pro tip: When you can have only one of two options and you each dislike an option, try to pick the one that brings the least unhappiness. For us, moving is definitely that option – I’m less unhappy being uprooted than he is unhappy staying in place.)

So once you’ve become open to the possibility of relocating, the question is where.There was talk of Europe, but that’s a logistical nightmare (especially when you’re green card holders, which limits the length of time you can be out of country without having to start over). Plus, it’s a whole different ballgame with kids.

The Left Coast has been on the radar for a long time – we’ve both visited (me multiple times because I’ve got some amazing extended family out there) and we have always loved it. In fact, when we went out two years ago for a road trip we even did some casual reconnaissance to Eugene (location of one of the only two public French immersion schools on the coast).

In the end, it kept coming back to Portland and Seattle – close to Canadaland and extended family, tons of options for outdoor activities, no snow (The Husband has decided 40 years of snow is plenty for him) but also no crazy heat (because I get wilty). It also seems like a place where a couple of beer-drinking, coffee-loving, book-reading, socialist-adjacent vegetarians might just find some like-minded folks.

And once the two cities were in the running, it “just” became a matter of applying for jobs, chasing leads, flying out for interviews, and then finally getting an offer.

We’re excited. And I really do mean “we” – all four of us are on board. The kids are pumped, and I’ve realized I can be content wherever I am as long as I’ve got Team PM by my side. Our move to Minneapolis was *such* a good thing for our family (and for the two high school sweethearts) and I have every reason to think this move will be, too.

This is a good compromise. Which is not to say that I’m not going to require an “I’m moving again for you” treat. Last time we moved, I asked for a house. This time, I’m angling for that cat….