Saying farewell is sweet sorrow

As I type this, there are movers all over my house. A very nice young man is working all around me, packing up the china cabinet displaying my Polish pottery collection and the china I received from my grandmother when I got married — china I have yet to use in almost 10 years. But it sure looked pretty in my brightly lit cabinet as we have moved from house to house.

Another young man is in the children’s playroom packing up almost every toy we own. Well, actually when we built the house, the room was intended to be a formal dining room, but we discovered I was pregnant with our daughter a month before we moved in and the formal dining room immediately became a playroom. Today it’s a storage area for various boxes of various sizes.

There is another young man upstairs in our bedrooms. I hear him whimpering softly every few minutes, because our rooms have a lot of clutter and none of it is very well organized. I think he’s afraid he might get lost in my overly stuffed closet and not be found until winter.

My stepdaughter isn’t here right now. With our move happening in a matter of days, she is using every second she has to spend as much time as she can with her friends. She has spent the night with a different girlfriend almost every single night for the past two weeks. I think she is working her way down a list of her friends alphabetically. The phone rings nonstop for her, especially when she’s not here. I’ve taken to referring to myself as her answering service and taking notes on who is requesting her presence on what nights, and letting her friends know what nights she is already booked.

I’d have made a great administrative assistant or logistic technician.

The 4-year old is having a bit of trouble wrapping his mind around the concept of us moving. He doesn’t quite understand it, and all he seems to be focused on is the fact that a complete stranger has boxed up his Transformers and his train set and that they are no longer visible to the naked eye. He has taken to playing all day long outside with his best friend, the 4-year old boy next door. Last summer, the two played together a bit whenever our two families happened to be outside at the same time. This summer, the two blond boys are inseparable, playing, fighting, jumping off steep objects, and laughing nonstop. My son doesn’t quite comprehend that we will be leaving all of this.

The 2-year old is completely oblivious to this entire process. As long as she has Life cereal and her Care Bear underwear, nothing fazes her.

The cats are extremely mad. I’d like to say that’s because my felines are brilliant members of the cat kingdom and they understand exactly what is going on. However, I believe the probable reason behind their feline anger lies in the fact that I gave them both baths yesterday.

They still aren’t speaking to me.

My husband is in his element here: In his 23-year Army career, he has moved more than 15 times. He loves walking around with the movers, joking with them and talking about places he has been. He likes reminiscing with them about his worst moves and his best moves, and enjoys watching boxes get re-packed that still haven’t been unpacked since we moved up here.

Me, I’m trying to cherish my last moments up here as much as possible. I am so much a part of this community, and it is so much a part of me, that it doesn’t seem possible that I will be leaving it in a matter of days. I have so many friends I need to say goodbye to, but I cannot seem to make those phone calls because it seem so final. I think that by procrastinating about actually saying goodbye, I can convince myself we are going to be here longer.

But that’s not going to be the case.

Today marks my last Sunday at my beloved church in Palmer: The church I got married in almost 10 years ago; the church that threw me a surprise baby shower when I was pregnant with my daughter that saw me writing 82 thank-you notes the next day; the church where I have taught high school Sunday school to the most wonderful group of teenagers imaginable; the church that has done more for my family in times of need and distress that I have ever thought possible. This is what I am reluctantly saying goodbye to and tears still fill my eyes when I think of it.

Our flight leaves late Wednesday afternoon.

I think I’ll be calling friends to say goodbye to them on my way to the airport. That’s when it will really sink in that we are moving.

Because I don’t think I can say goodbye just yet.

Tiffany Horvath is the mother of two and the stepmother of one. Her husband, Drew, was deployed to Iraq and returned home in December. She writes every Sunday abut life at home as a wife and mother.