Pack Your Bags, the Bitchin' Wives Club is Heading South

So, there I was, innocently minding my business, just doing my best to keep the boys out of juvie while juggling life, late Christmas cards, and a quick trip to Vegas, when my husband announces that his interview while I was at CES had gone terribly well—so well, in fact, that they had offered him the job... in southern Louisiana! 

Other families might sit on news like this for a good, long while. Other families might decide that they should stay put until school ended before making a big cross-country move with three children who might still be somewhat vulnerable from their recent move from England back to the United States.


Those other families are wussies. 


Being the unstoppable and dramatic Furious Five, we immediately bought a ticket for me to fly down and look at houses... and fell in love with not one, but TWO, of them. Being like normal families, however, we only put an offer on one of them. (I know. Ridiculous!)


Cross your fingers! We're hoping to close on it at the end of February.


Now, here's the really shocking part: Daddy-007 started his job in Louisiana today. So, I am a single parent until we get the house closed there and then moved out of here and into there. Possibly as soon as mid-March. God, and financial institutions, willing.

Daddy-007, otherwise known as the Iron Fist (because I usually get to be the Velvet Glove), has only been gone since Friday morning, but things have already gotten dicey with the boys. In fact, a "Come To Jesus" talk had to be initiated last night to make sure that everyone was crystal clear on how things are going to roll in Dad's absence. I think we reached an understanding. I understand that they will continue to misbehave and they understand that I am going to grow increasingly erratic and shrill until they stop or the PS3 gets thrown down the basement steps, whichever comes first.

If you are on good terms with any higher powers, please put in the good word, m'kay? Because I will surely need every bit of help I can get over the next month. Our darling Gigi, the deported babysitter of yesteryear, can only carry so much of our borderline-insanity, after all.

In the meantime, as I slog through closing up our beloved house of thirteen years and saying goodbye (in a more final way than when we left for the UK in 2009) to my many friends here and to the Midwest, in general, I am trying to keep this mental picture in my head to keep me going:

Me, sitting on that porch swing, husband and camera by my side, drinks in our hands, while we watch the boys tear around the four acres trying to kill each other.

Peaceful, isn't it?