"Packing Day Blues" Would Be a Really Lame Song Title But It Would Be Sort Of Heartfelt and True On a Day Like Today

As I have noted in this space before, I've moved a few times in my life.  Unlike some of my siblings, who hated everything about being uprooted and packed off to some new state, I looked forward to each move.  I mean, I was genuinely excited ... mostly because I had a misguided belief that each new place would be bully-free.  Turns out there are jerks who will think nothing of breaking your glasses at such disparate locales as Pleasant Grove, Utah and Coral Springs, Florida.  Just because you're a smart aleck who is a foot shorter than everyone else and is dressed by his mom to look like an extra from Dead Poets Society does not mean you deserve to be punched in the face.  OK, maybe just a little bit.

Anyway, my feelings above moving weren't totally tied to avoiding bullies and finally proving to the world that wearing penny loafers with jeans was cool.  For example, I was never punched while living in Ohio but for some reason I couldn't get out of there fast enough.  Maybe it was because we had bats living in our house, and the economy was going down the toilet known as the Cuyahoga River, and moving meant I was going to have one of those full-time job thingers.  And then moving from Turkey back to America was exciting because I was sort of tired of smelling burning diapers and sweating my balls off.

But this move?  Meh.  I should be excited.  I mean, for crap's sake, I'm moving to a place I've dreamed of living in since I was 12 years old.  Granted, my initial fantasy involved being a sleeper IRA agent, but I imagined that I'd be somewhat enchanted by the tudor homes and the meat pies and the double-decker buses before avenging my people for some atrocities that I didn't know that much about.  And then there was the 1998 World Cup.  Which had nothing to do with England -- except for a typical early exit -- other than re-kindling an obsession with soccer that had me convinced I would not be happy unless I lived in London and could watch Arsenal every weekend.  And there's my previous post about wanting my kids to run around the Jesus Green in their wellies.

But as the packers comb through our house today, boxing up our belongings and reminding us that yes, we are moving, I can't help but feel a pang deep in my chest.  Sure, it might be from the Spicy Italian footlong I ate for lunch, but trust me, I have experienced pain after eating a Spicy Italian footlong before and this is different.  At least so far.  I think what this is may be is, um, sadness or something equally pretentious and worthy of a face punch.  Whatever it is, I've never felt this way when moving.  Maybe it's because this is the first home we've ever owned (and given the nightmare that is our country's economy, probably the last).  Maybe it's because just about every time I go up the basement stairs, I can't help but think of when Rowan slipped and split his chin on the top step.  Maybe it's because the only room we didn't repaint was Blythe's because it was already pink and she claimed it the day we first saw the house.  Maybe it's because this is the place where I said goodbye to my wife and kids, and this is the place where I returned seven months later to my wife and one more daughter.  Maybe it's because the woods behind our place was the scene of epic paintball battles between Liam, me, and a couple of other kids who were nothing but moving targets to me.  Maybe it's because somewhere in those woods there is a can of Coke, which I threw petulantly after it exploded in my face minutes before my post-deployment homecoming was about to start, causing Emily to tell me our second honeymoon was officially over.  Stupid can.  Maybe it's because we've never had neighbors like this, who mow our yard while I'm deployed and who give our kids birthday presents, and who laugh and joke with us as we all swat away mosquitos on long summer nights.  Maybe it's because this is the room where I'm going to tackle Liam and wrestle him to the ground for making fun of this post as he reads it over my shoulder, the little turd.

And yeah, Rowan will for sure split his chin in some other place and, unfortunately, there will be other goodbye scenes in other foyers and I suppose it's technically possible I could come back from another lengthy trip and find out our family size grew in my absence (but I really hope not), and there will be many MANY rooms in which I will wrestle Liam to the ground.  In other words, I should stop whining ... or whinging, as the case may be.  Life's good, I have a job, we're healthy, and I'm told there are drugs that help with anxiety, so I shouldn't have any complaints, assuming that last bit about the drugs is true.  And yeah, we're moving to England, where theoretically I can watch soccer and enjoy the meat pies and tudor houses I once so foolishly wanted to destroy on behalf of the IRA ... well, maybe it's not so foolish to want to blow up the meat pies -- I ate something in the Peak District on vacation in 1999 that I'm still trying to digest.  All those half-hearted attempts to reassure myself aside, I still can't get over the sinking feeling I have while navigating the maze of boxes in our home.  Maybe I just need a bully to punch me in the face.  Maybe it will be one of the movers, who is listening to Tupac right now and who has a tattoo on her neck.  Yeah, I said "her."  She scares me.