So the travel is done, the company has departed, the bank accounts are empty, and we are "home."  Grounded, as it were.  We've been back and just us for about 10 days now.  Strangely, Daniel hasn't been traveling and won't really be until next week.  Things are "normal," I suppose.  Though I don't really know what normal is for us.  Which is kind of the thing.  

The morning after we returned from Hawaii, Mirabella started preschool (which is another story, coming soon).  So we now have a place to be twice per day, twice per week, which is new.  The unfortunately-named MOPS (mothers of preschoolers) starts this week, twice per month.  I am told that, as a stay-at-home mother to preschool children living in a new place, this will be my sanity.  So this week we have school Tuesday and Thursday and MOPS Wednesday, and somehow this seems to me to be a "busy week."  Keep in mind that not so long ago I worked 4-5 days per week and raised my kids and managed my house.  But we are disoriented.  

I have been doing a bit better at settling into this new role, this new stage of my life.  Initially, it was so intoxicating not to set an alarm for 5:25 each morning that I let my kids wake me up.  There is a serious flaw in this plan: My children love waking up. I do not.  So they would burst into my room, all fuzzy and warm and excited and I would be upset with them, simply because they were awake.  Friends, this is not the best I can do. 

So I have been setting my alarm, working out, showering and starting my first cup of coffee before the children wake up.  I will not tell you I have been enjoying it, but I am certainly kinder when they wake up, which is a start.  The other stuff-- the endlessness of the home management tasks, the incredible shift of responsibility now that it's actually my job-- still overwhelms me.  I do not often sit still.  But I recently devoured Jen Hatmaker's book Out of the Spin Cycle,  which is really helping me to rethink and reframe (and in some cases, release) some of the baggage I've brought to my latest assignment.  Until Friday when I might have melted down a little in front of my startled husband because I just had to go somewhere-- anywhere-- where people other than the ones I keep alive were.  Even if I didn't talk to them.  Just to get out of my neighborhood. It wasn't pretty.  And so, I'm a work in progress.  

I remember telling a friend in Maryland right before our move that we really wouldn't "settle in" until September, since we had so much summer travel and company planned.  I said it casually, as if I had any idea what I was talking about.  I was actually right, but I'm still a little itchy that this (whatever this is) is taking so long.  

I am anxious to nail things down that don't work that way. Babysitters. A church. Friends. Old haunts. Familiarity. Things that just take time.   Previously, I thought I'd have "arrived" when I could get through a day without GPS.  Since our GPS came with our (2005) vehicle, and our neighborhood is newer than that, I had to ditch the GPS sooner than I'd planned.  It can get me most places, but it can never get me home. So it turns out, I think, that the real sign I have acclimated will be when I can get through a day with fewer than 75 Google inquiries about things around here.  Google, at the moment, is my best friend.  

The travel and busyness of this last season made it easy to be preoccupied-- easy to blame our lack of connections or roots on the circumstances.  But even I'm surprised when I say we've lived here two months.  It sure doesn't feel like it.  It doesn't feel like we have much to show for it.  

And so, it's time to begin.  

It's time to take the girls outside to play when the neighborhood kids are out there. It's time to stand awkwardly with my neighbors until maybe it's not so awkward anymore. It's time to look up from my children-- at preschool, at events-- and try to talk to the people around me.  I'm not sure how this happened, but I tend to hide behind my kids because it's easier than talking to so many strangers.  Which is why Wednesday's MOPS will be good for me (though please note I didn't say "lots of fun," at least not at first).  It's time to return to the (massive) list of churches-- weekly if we have to-- until we find The One.  We've been to three so far.  We have been trying to adjust our attitudes, to be open instead of judgmental.  To try to learn from the people at each place.  Each  of the three have been good, but we are looking for home-- so far away from ours.  It feels strangely like dating, the hope and the disappointment we've felt.  And, of course, the Google searches.  

It's time to find all the things I took for granted in Maryland-- the listservs, the farms, the stores, the doctors, the cheap places to eat and play.   It's Time.

Disclaimer - This post was written in the middle of the night, but I did not have the presence of mind at that time to locate photos, so I'm posting it now, when I'm slightly more awake.

It's nearly 4:00 AM Central time, and I can't sleep.  I've been awake for about an hour and a half.  Unaccustomed to insomnia, I have tried everything.  Changing positions, nudging my husband back to his side of the bed, then surfing on my phone.  I have trolled Craigslist, and in an unrelated train of thought, diagnosed myself with gallbladder disease.  If I know you, chances are I have prayed for you tonight.  I have prayed for myself, my husband, my children, and most of my friends and family, in detail.  I am supposed to be up at 7:00 to workout at the pool before our day starts in this new, strange life.  But I just can't sleep, so here I am.

We've been in the new house for a week now, but it doesn't feel like it.  We stayed with my parents for several nights before making the trip.  It was-- say it with me-- bittersweet.  It felt very strange to be between homes.  Emerie, our little homebody, kept saying (as she often does), "Okay, Mommy.  I ready a go home now."  I wonder what place she envisions when she says "home."  I wonder if this feels like it yet.

We said good-bye to our old house and finally started our journey to Tennessee a day later than planned in 104-degree heat with two vehicles, three adults, two kids, a dog and a lot of toys and snacks.  The movers did not call to tell us what day our stuff would be arriving until about halfway through our first travel day.  It was days later than they had initially promised.  Daniel, ever our advocate, helped them to rethink their timetable.  Ahem. 

Traffic was terrible that first day, and with no reason to make it all the way there, we stopped in Knoxville.  It's not easy to travel long distances, especially in extreme heat, with a dog.  There are not many places you can go where everyone can be together, and not many places you want to go that offer outdoor seating on 81.  So I had my very first Sonic experience.

That night we found a pet-friendly hotel suite that had two rooms.  Mirabella slept in the closet (both children actually fought over that honor).  Our goal for the kids has been for them to find this whole experience to be a great adventure.  That night, we succeeded.  We ate from the sparse continental breakfast in the morning and played in the small outdoor pool before heading the rest of the way to our new place on the southern side of Nashville.

As we approached Nashville, Mirabella asked me to tell her a story.  I had been in the habit of telling her stories about a girl named "Pinky" (she chose the name).  Pinky, as it turned out, was also in the process of moving with her family to Tennessee.  She just so happened to be getting ready to see her new home for the first time on the same day as Mirabella.  "How do you think she might be feeling?" I asked her.

"Like she wants to be in two places at once," she replied.

"Where?" I asked.

"Maryland and Tennessee."

"What else might she be feeling," I asked, cringing.

"Like maybe this might start to feel like home, after a little while."

When we finally arrived, the kids explored and ran circles around every empty room.  Daniel set up their tent in their room.  We unloaded the car and cranked the air conditioning, then went to dinner downtown. We stumbled upon a local place with fantastic food, a great band, and room for our girls to dance.  I watched them twirling and whispered to Daniel, "This might be okay." We slept on air mattresses that night and awaited the delivery of over 385 boxes the next day.

When the movers arrived the next morning, Amy and the kids and I ran errands, delivered lunch, then went to the pool.  It's hard to keep two preschoolers out of the way.  When we got home there were boxes everywhere.  Professional movers do not pack the way you do.  One four-foot-tall box labeled "Kitchen" had three shelves in it (destined for the garage) and roughly 200 sheets of packing paper.  Some rooms were more straightforward than others, but there really was no systematic way to unpack, and the boxes seemed to multiply.  In those first days we met new neighbors, but unfortunately, only the ones who are on their way out of the neighborhood and wanted our empty boxes.

Thanks to Daniel's gracious boss and colleagues allowing him a laidback holiday week and Amy's selfless help, we are now unpacked in all the places that matter most. We spent the Fourth of July at a fabulous festival in our new town, watching the fireworks from an expansive open field.  We have been to the pool most of the days we've been here, we took the girls to see Brave, and tonight, after playing out back with our nextdoor neighbors' six and nearly three-year-old girls, Mirabella prayed, "Thank you for my new friends and for letting us move here."

I've been to two new grocery stores, two farmer's markets, two new restaurants, a frozen yogurt place, and a new church. We have endured 109-degree heat, anxiety over lack of familiarity, money and routine, countless meltdowns from our little ones, and a couple from their parents. Saturday after we dropped Amy off at the airport, it started feeling more permanent.  Today we were both out of sorts.  Unsettled, I guess.

And now it's nearly 5:00 AM, and I sit wide awake at a computer that's stacked on top of three cardboard boxes. Send your prayer requests my way. In a strange turn of events,  I've got nothing but time.