The garage sale

I'm back in my office late at night trying to wrap it all up. We're leaving for Chicago in a little over four days. This week has been a blur. We had our garage sale, which went pretty well, I think. I'm still amazed at the things people were willing to spend money on. "One man's trash is another man's treasure" doesn't even begin to explain what goes on during these things. There are professional garage sale patrons - people who show up hours before the published opening time, spend hours pouring over every item, asking questions, searching for specific things, looking for a diamond in the rough. They know each other by name and by preferences ("sorry, dear! No Asian stuff here!"). They know a bargain when they see one. They seem to know things about my stuff that I don't. They are creepy.

We closed on our house in the middle of the garage sale. What a relief! I thought I'd be more distraught as everything became final; but as bookshelves, beds, dressers, and my house found new owners, I wished them all a fond farewell.

One of the odder things that someone bought was a bag full of my old fencing ribbons. My friend's mother looked on in horror as a little boy carted off years of hard work and dedication bordering on an unhealthy and expensive obsession.

"You're selling your history!" She hissed at me.

An ex-champion's trash is a little boy's treasure. I think I'm good with that. What will that boy make of those faux gold disks with the brightly colored ribbons? Will they inspire him, or will they end up gathering dust in a drawer, as they did in my home? Would my own kids have done anything more with them, I wonder? It's best not to ponder the fate of my trash too deeply. It has brought people joy, and me release. That's enough.

A couple of days later we celebrated my son's seventh birthday with a big party. It was a couple of weeks early, but I wanted my boy to share one last celebration with his friends. The party was in the gym of the JCC. The kids ran around like crazy for a solid hour, while moms and dads stood around the edges trying to make sense of the chaos before them. The posse stopped their perpetual motion long enough for pizza, cake, and ice cream, and then they were off again! My son was deliriously happy.

I silently urged him to treasure each second, before it passed on.

With four days to go, we're packing, cleaning, and making all of our final preparations. I'm still trying to finish up an impossibly infinite task here at work. At some point I'll have to pass this project on to someone else to finish up. In other words, dump it on them. In the meantime, it's still my responsibility.

My children are watching their belongings get packed away or sold, but they go on as normally as they can. They're taking swimming lessons, going to camp, and playing with friends. I know they are aware that the big day is coming fast, but I'm not sure if they really get it. I took the girls for their last check-up at the pediatrician. They both got shots, and I sat in the examination room with two sobbing girls in my lap. Like those shots, I doubt the pain of this move will linger for my little girls for too long, but it may be different for my seven year-old. He is so sensitive to the sadness and regret that surround him. I know he'll be fine, but I can't help but feel a tremendous sense of loss for a wonderful slice of life that can't be frozen in place.

It's time to move on.

The reunion

My twentieth high school reunion was Saturday night. I had no interest in going to my tenth. I was too busy being a hot-shot fencer and training to be a coach at the Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs to worry about such useless things. This time around I thought better of it. I had lost my 27 year-old arrogance and pretension. I was curious to revisit my past. To see how everyone else had fared. How well we've all aged and grown. I was proud to show up with my smart, handsome hubby and pictures of my beautiful (ptui, ptui, ptui) kids.

So I bought a new outfit (kiwi green silk blouse, matching hip-hugging skirt, and 2-inch-heeled matching flip flops). I curled my hair (it later wilted like an delicate flower), put on make-up and perfume, and strutted in like everyone else - with something to prove.

The admission was a fortune: $120 for an over-glorified cocktail party with name tags! The meager 10-15% of my graduating class wandered around the loud banquet space squinting at name tags, and looking questioningly at faces.

"Were we in a class together?"

I don't know.

There was a small group of my old band friends (yes, I was a band geek, and damned proud of it!). We huddled together away from the noise and confusion of the old popular crowd who took over the dance floor and bar. We reminisced, wondered about old friends, and caught each other up an our kids and our lives. It was nice seeing familiar faces, people who meant so much to me so long ago. It made me feel connected and disconnected at the same time.

The timing was odd, too. With less than two weeks left here, I am saying hello and goodbye in such a discrete period in time. With a flash of my wilted curls, the "now you see me, now you don't" magical, disappearing act!

Speaking of magic, my house is disappearing into dozens of cardboard boxes. My kitchen is in the process of being bubble wrapped, the sale sign is on the Saturn, and the garage sale is in three days. I'm still spending nights in my office, thank goodness, not to grade. I'm gathering up the loose strings of my life and trying to tie them up into neat little knots like the fringe of a tallit, and praying that I don't forget something important.

Was this all a part of my life?

I don't know.

The petition

My last semester is finally over, and it was a doozy!

Over the past six and half years I've had good semesters and bad semesters. I've been overwhelmed at times, annoyed at others, generally happy most of it. The May Minimester was a high point for teaching. My students were great. We had wonderful discussions, they were interested, interesting, engaged, engaging, and overall, a pleasure. Earlier in this blog I bemoaned leaving such a wonderful working environment.

Well, I take it all back now.

Summer 1 term was a nightmare! My students were petty, obnoxious, bad mannered, and filled with an overwhelming sense of entitlement; entitled to be given good grades out of the kindness of my heart, apparently. Who needs to study when you can bully, harass, and pressure your professor for the extra points? We're not talking about a Professor Kingsfield from The Paper Chase, either. We're talking about ME: the kindest, softest-hearted instructor in the department. It all culminated in a petition being passed around the class and submitted to the dean of the department. The complaint? My tests were too hard. Puh-leaze!

My students were so stressed out about their test grades, that I created extra credit assignments to help them bring up their grades. Their test grades also improved with each subsequent one. In the end, the insurgency decided to drop the petition. So much for a principled position.

By the way, so you don't think I caved into the pressure, I didn't actually find out about the petition until after I submitted the final grades. I'm just a nice person.

The big day is coming closer and closer. We're still packing up. Sunday we tackled the toys. You can't possibly imagine how many toys three little kids can amass in a lifetime. Every surface in our entire downstairs was covered with toys and games. My husband and I made piles of piles: the complete toy, toy parts, toys to pack, toys to sell, toys to toss, toy bits we couldn't recognize. There were educational toys, building toys, imaginative toys, and choking hazard toys. There were soft toys, plush toys, gender stereotyped toys, and religious indoctrination toys. There were gambling toys, contraband toys, and contraindicated toys.

My parents came back yesterday from a two week visit to New York with my sister and her family, and guess what they brought back? More toys.

Clothes and toys and art and pictures are packed away. The kitchen and office are next. The yard sale is just a couple of weeks away, the apartment lease is signed. The move is closer and closer, and boy, it's a doozy.

My epiphany

I'm back in my office grading late at night. This is likely the last time I will be doing this (G-d willing), at least here. I had a tremendous epiphany this past week: we're moving in less than a month.

Okay, it's not an Earth-shaking revelation, but it shook me pretty good. There's just so much to do, and I'm not ready; not in terms of packing, not in terms of tying up all of my loose threads, not in terms of mental preparedness. I'm not mentally in Chicago, yet. I can't seem to visualize myself in this big, cold city. I can't picture myself parenting three children in the urban North. I can't imagine life as the wife of a law school student. I know it's going to be difficult. I know I'll barely see my husband. Cognitively, I get it. Emotionally, it's not sinking in.

Life here continues unabated. My kids are in summer camp, swimming, playing sports, and having a great time. My eldest has been really snarky lately; very defiant, very angry. I'm not sure what's going on there. The baby is growing at light speeds. She's walking, her vocabulary's beginning to stretch, and her sweet, funny personality is beginning to sparkle. I'm falling deeply in love with her emerging toddlerhood. Her big sister is growing into a stunning beauty. At four I am catching glimpses of a dark-haired, dark-eyed, fair-skinned heartbreaker. She's my little Morenita.

The move is getting more tangible. My husband's at home now packing up our art, the china, and our linens. We're planning a big garage sale in three weeks (come on out for great furniture, appliances, books, toys, and clothing!), we're selling our car (interested in a '97 gold 4-door Saturn in great shape?), we're renting the moving van. We're getting ready to say goodbye to some of the most wonderful friends a person could hope to have. I'm bracing myself for crying a river of tears.

At the same time, excitement is building up around the edges. I felt really old yesterday. My husband and I were emptying out the guestroom dresser where we store useless stuff. We pulled out hundreds of used gift bags, birthday decorations, and old fencing equipment. The bottom drawer held all of my old fencing medals. I went through them, picking out the ones I wanted to keep. I held a handful of national championship memories in my hands and realized something. It wasn't an awareness that I used to be something special - a national championship athlete. Believe it or not, this boring, nervous, fearful Mom used to be a wild, tough, competitive tiger. I used to travel around the country dragging a big bag of fencing sabres behind me. I swaggered. I kicked ass. I actually intimidated people once!

No, the realization was that I was no longer that strong, muscular, confident, sexy young woman.

I'm older, staid, dull, and often dim-witted. But I am seeing that fire, energy, and vibrancy in my children, and it thrills me! They're smarter, more grounded, and confident than I ever was. Maybe this move is exactly what I need to channel that electricity buried deep within. maybe it's time to channel my inner sabre chic!

In Hebrew there's a saying: meshane makom meshane mazal (change your place, change your luck). I'm hoping to change my mindset. I'm hoping to change my energy. While my husband is sequestered away in the law library, I hope to sharpen my wits, and find the edge I had buried in the bottom drawer of the guestroom dresser.