Children have no respect for closure or narrative structure. After I wrote that lovely poignant final post and spent the evening saying things like, “just think, it’s the last time I will floss my teeth while looking in this particular mirror,” Edith decided to pull an all-nighter the likes of which she hasn’t pulled since she was a newborn. The kind of all-nighter that results in a cry-off between mother and babe (the babe, being a thorough and unrepentant solipsist, will always win).
The maddening thing about this particular all-nighter is that, unlike when she was a newborn, this one was really just because she wanted to get up and play. Which she eventually accomplished at 5:30 a.m. when I finally just gave up. She played happily until 9:00 a.m. while I did my best impression of that dead woman from that horror movie (I can’t think of a more precise analogy because I didn’t get any sleep last night), and then my mom got up unawares and said “Good morning! Moving day, woo-hoo! Is that the garbage truck?” and I replied “HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW, WHAT AM I THE GARBAGE TRUCK MAGI?!?!?!” and then burst into fresh tears.
So anyway, we’re moving tomorrow.
The plan was for the movers to move our stuff and then for Mom to come back up here and for us to load the car and van with our personal items and the baby and then go down to the new house and set up our rooms. So we just pushed the second half of that plan for tomorrow, and instead, Mom came back up and took Edith while I had a very brief nap, and then it was already bedtime. Realistically, I think our plan was too ambitious for one day anyway. So, this is the last last night, but for real this time.