There has been a fly buzzing around my head for two days.  He rests briefly on the window sill or kitchen counter, but by the time I can grab my rolled up magazine, he is gone: “HAHA! Can’t catch me!  What’s wrong with you, slowpoke??!”

I’ve been asking myself the same question for about a month now:  “What’s wrong with me?”  I always seem to be about 3 steps behind and slightly confused.

Phil is worse not much better.  Here is a snippet from our recent “scheduling” conversation:

“So when are you traveling?”

“A week from today, so next Tuesday.”

“Today is Thursday.”

“Ok, so less than a week from today.”

“But I made a doctor’s appt. that day.”

“We don’t have the medical records yet.”

“I thought you took care of that.”

“No, I can’t until we get the new insurance cards.”

“Well where are they?”

“They sent them…but then we need to wait for them to get forwarded because they need to use our original billing address.”

“Oh.  Ok so I’ll just cancel the appointment.  When should I try and reschedule?”

“Maybe next Thursday?”

“Emma has gymnastics on Thursday.  Shit, what day is today?”

“Tuesday.  No wait…Thursday.”

The fly landed right in the middle of Phil’s forehead.  I imagined it wearing wearing a top hat and tap shoes while singing Where Did We Go Right from The Producers.

And the thing is, we HAVE done a lot of things right:  We moved to a great town, Phil is branching out in his career, and all of us are loving being so close to the ocean. BUT….we have yet to find our groove.  Phoebe has declared her intention to stick with diapers until her 18th birthday, and has given up napping….in her bed, that is.  She deems the Antacid aisle of the CVS and the bus stop acceptable spots to take a load off.I thought Emma was adjusting pretty well. I mean, she gets 100% on her spelling tests and stopped threatening to “get herself dead” by throwing herself in front of a mail truck.  Just yesterday she entertained herself for hours by bopping along with her IPod and headphones.  It wasn’t until I got closer to her that I heard the lyrics she was singing along to: “Ripped jeans, skin was showin’, hot night, wind was blowin’, were you think you’re going baby?”

WTF??  Is that the Call Me Maybe song?  I thought the chorus was “You’re my momma, I’m your baby.”  At least that’s how Phoebe sings it.  I’ve never been good at deciphering song lyrics.  I’ve seen Dave Matthews a dozen times in concert and still have no idea what he is talking about.

I look at this move as a pregnancy:

First Trimester – Leave PA, live in scary marsh rental for 3 weeks, then move to winter rental.

Second Trimester – Live in tiny winter rental without killing each other with a sense of adventure.

Third Trimester – Buy a house and never, ever do this again.  Never ever ever.  Tie the tubes; Snip Snip.

So now that we in the 10th week, beyond the initial dazed and confused euphoria of the first trimester, it is time to get our heads out of the box of Saltines and realize that this is really happening.  We really live here.  It is time to unpack.  Formulate some systems.  Stop having packages delivered to 5 Michael Ave when we live at 15 Michael Ave.  Because while the neighbors at 5 Michael appreciated the 2 free weeks of the Boston Globe, making them drag those 25 lb IKEA boxes down the street is a surefire way to wear out our welcome.

Samuel Johnson said, “To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition, the end to which every enterprise and labour tends.”  These words ground me; they remind me that our successes outside the home are born out of our successes IN the home.

Which is why, my dear and loyal MOB readers, I need to take a pause from blogging.  This was a very hard decision, as writing the blog and reading your responses is the highlight of my week.  It makes me feel connected and less crazy alone.  But I fear that all the buzzing in my head will result in pitiful dribble on the page, which is kind of wasting everyone’s time.

Yesterday, when the mower died on the front lawn, the pizza dough failed to rise, and the girls insisted on cartwheeling through the  180 sq. ft. kitchen, I wondered if would ever find the wine opener get my head on straight again.  And then, as if to prove me right, the fly buzzed right by my ear, circled my head, and landed on the window sill.  My eyes never left him, and with a quick swack of the Metro section, I got him. Victory was mine.I have a few more battles to win (like where the hell is the post office?) before I can commit to a weekly blog.  But when that time comes, I hope you guys will still be interested in the craziness that is my life.  I know I will still be interested in yours.

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