If someone came over to our house and forced Jeff and I to prioritize the factors that are influencing our relocation, it wouldn’t take much time to come up with a list. At the same time, I’m one of those weirdos who is constantly looking for signs. (Signs from the universe. Not traffic signs. Yesterday afternoon I accidentally ran a stop sign in a burrito parking lot and a woman who could have been 104 years old flashed her middle finger at me and I got all flustered and I almost followed her to her final destination so I could apologize for being a jerk, but I didn’t want to freak her out any more than I already had in the burrito parking lot.) If signs are falling into our laps, they can’t be ignored.
Sort of a sign: Last week was Meredith’s fifth grade recognition ceremony, and 23 of you just yawned when you read “fifth grade recognition ceremony” but I can assure you that it was NOT a yawn-inducing event. It’s a talent showcase and some of these kids can SING and some of them are fearless and I sat in that cold metal chair and thought about how we’ve known some of these kids since they were three years old and now they’re running sound equipment and playing instruments and some of them look like ADULTS, which I’m assuming can be blamed on milk hormones, but I can’t blame milk hormones for everything because at some point HUMAN hormones kick in and Ack! Meredith is starting middle school next year.
This is not going to be a post about a weepy mom (me) and how they (kids) grow up too fast. I’ve seen way too many of those posts in the past week, and I lack the energy to make it work. Yes. Meredith is not two anymore. BUT, I’m glad that she’s potty trained and that she’s a good egg and that she’s finally starting to stand up for herself a bit more. All good things. I’m in for the ride.
After the fifth grade recognition ceremony (WAKE UP OUT THERE, YOU!), Harper said the following words: “I’m sad that I won’t be at this elementary school in fifth grade.” I responded with the sort of crap that you’re supposed to say to a child who is afraid of change. “WELL, just think of the friends you’ll make at the NEW SCHOOL!” Sadly, but not so sadly, Harper is smart. She knew exactly what I was doing. She wants her own room, but she wants to stay where we are. During all of the talks about moving, Harper has always been the one to express excitement about being the new kid. This is no longer the case.
Sort of a sign: I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: You can’t swing a dead cat without thwapping a gifted kid in the head. Gifted kids are everywhere. Because I don’t like to drone on about it, I’ll just say this: 1. Both of my kids are in the gifted program at their school, and we could not be happier with the program. It’s amazing, and it continues in various forms until the kids graduate from high school. 2. I know I’m not using colons correctly in this entry. I don’t have much free time today, so I’m typing as I think and just puking it onto you without manners. (You look very pretty/handsome today.) Anyway, while researching schools in the areas where we’re thinking about relocating, none of their gifted programs have impressed us as much as the program we’re in right now.
Sort of a sign: Yesterday morning, one of the teachers at school told me that if we move, we’ll be missed. I know that’s a stock comment to say to someone who may be moving, but it was sort of a thing because I’ve never been told that I was missed or that I’ll be missed. I’m always just sort of a floater who is there or not there.
Sort of a sign: Can we talk about music for a second? Our school’s band/orchestra/choral program is a good one. A few weeks back, Meredith told me that she was asked to audition for a spot in the percussion program. In 1980, if you wanted to play the drums, you signed up for percussion. No test, no questions, you’re just in. Anyway, times have changed and yesterday we received an acceptance letter and invitation for Meredith to be part of the percussion program. Because I have always put music (and drummers) high on my list of LIKES, this was a huge thing. (We celebrated with Dairy Queen, which is never really a great choice, but it was Meredith’s choice, so there you go.)
Our realtor is coming over this weekend. I’m assuming she’s going to be bringing a Coming Soon! sign for our front yard. (So many signs!) I’m feeling so completely torn right now because we can get a lot more house for our money if we move 30 minutes west. (I’ve been consistently shocked by the size of houses we can afford out there, and the size of houses we cannot afford where we are right now.) I want our next house to be our forever house. I want to die in that house, and I want that death to occur sometime after I’m 75 years old. Honestly, Fluid Pudding is the perfect name because I’m physically unable to stand firm on anything lately. We can’t stay here because even though we’re selling this house as a three bedroom house, it’s not really a three bedroom house. (I hate that it feels slimy to call it a three bedroom house, but both realtors swear that this is what you do. I also feel weird about not disclosing the fact that the first woman who lived here either died and fell off of the roof or else she fell off of the roof and died.)