Goodbyes.

My feet felt like lead as I dragged myself up the hill, and I swiped at my face with my tshirt in a futile attempt to sop up some of the sweat. Damn, it was hot. I was relieved when I finally crested the hill and saw the shade trees that lined Jackson Avenue. The warm breeze may have felt a little bit like the opening of an oven door, but it rustled the flags that adorned each of the stately old general's quarters in picture-perfect fashion. I was glad I had chosen this route- the length of Fort Myer, past the caisson stables and along the crumbly brick wall that separated main post from Arlington National Cemetery- for my morning run on my last day of work in DC. As I rounded the corner I could just see the long, perfectly straight rows of white grave markers disappearing over the hilltops in the distance. There were not a lot of things I was going to miss about working here, but being able to exercise among the monuments and memorials and to find myself alone in these hallowed places of our history- this I would miss.

As I jogged past the brick headquarters buildings that housed the Old Guard headquarters, I saw a lone figure walking in front of me. Even on such a hot and humid morning, there were knife-edge creases in his blue uniform pants. I could almost see the sweat pouring down from under his wool "bus driver's" hat, but he held his rifle over his shoulder at the perfect angle and looked every bit the solemn soldier as he marched off to do the work of the day, paying respect on behalf of us all to those veterans who would be buried at Arlington this Friday. Then he turned slightly and I couldn't help but laugh. He was smoking a cigarette as he walked, in flagrant violation of every uniform regulation of every service and particularly frowned upon here.

As a former leader of Soldiers who had occasionally sent them- at the Army's request- to the Old Guard, I knew the sharp image was carefully curated. Soldiers were selected for this duty because they looked the part: tall, fit, broad-shouldered, and largely white and male; the incarnation of our collective imagination. As an Army officer, I knew that the "real" warfighters looked down on guys who went to the Old Guard, trained killers who instead of heading off to war with their buddies went to DC to get dressed up and march in parades. And as an Army lawyer, I knew that these impressive-looking young men dabbled in drugs and married strippers and got into barfights at just the same rate as soldiers do anywhere.

Still, I thought, as I passed another young soldier, dressed like a member of the Continental Army and carrying his tricorner hat in one hand and a purple Gatorade in the other, this place gave me chills. In this turbulent time of mudslinging and fault-finding and our collective loss of faith in just about everything and everybody, there is still magic in the history and tradition of this, our sacred place. And I was glad I got to enjoy my special access to it one more time.

... I wrote that going on two weeks ago. Later that day, I scanned my badge at the outer gate of the Pentagon one last time and heard the click that meant that my building access was thereby revoked. Hopefully for good, I thought. I considered my Pentagon dues paid, even though I had only had to spend less than a year in the big house, all told. 

We moved into a lovely hotel suite in Old Town, where Finley and Grandma Jayne enjoyed hotel breakfasts and long walks on cobblestone streets and King Street shopping and ice cream and afternoons at the pool. Seth finished school. Ford and I sweated our tails off supervising movers during an incredibly unwelcome heat wave.

Somebody had definitely gotten the short end of the moving stick. (In my favorite photo of the week, snapped by Jayne during Finley's new favorite game, she seems to be saying: "not me!")

Jayne finally had to go home for the first day of school (tears all 'round), and Seth and I had a hilarious, awful day that involve a failed trip to the pool with both kids for me, followed by my remembering (and thanking the powers that be) for the soft playroom at the Rec Center; and a 2am night with a moving crew for Seth during which I'm pretty sure he wound up carrying all the heavy stuff. 

And the next day, we- barely- made it to Seth's graduation, and had one last DC meal in a hotel parking lot on Highway 1 

before Seth and Finley headed north and Ford and I nursed moving-dust colds that meant our last night in town involved sniffling on Michelle's couch instead of any number of other iconic sendoffs we had planned. Friday morning, we cleared the house (mentally congratulating ourselves for hiring a professional cleaning team) and drove away for the last time. It was kind of nuts, actually. I would miss views like the ones above, but- well, I typed this in my last DC traffic jam and mean every word. Especially the last two. 

Race to the finish, and a Squirrel Incident.

... aaaaaand of course it’s a race to the finish, our best intentions notwithstanding. Seth’s scrambling to finish his last big take-home exam and figure out how to crate deer heads. I’m trying to inprocess the student detachment and simultaneously outprocess the Pentagon while still working and trying to schedule movers and cleaning teams and reserve hotel rooms and register kids for CDC. We definitely have not cleaned out the garage, nor have we packed a single kid necessity for the ten days we’ll be without our stuff.

Today while attempting to outprocess the dental clinic, I found out that my dental records are being held hostage until I can schedule an appointment for an exam. As the dental clinic doesn’t seem to be open the only times I’m available (generally between 11pm and 3am, the time at which Finley has suddenly started waking up and shrieking), I’m unsure how to resolve that particular standoff.

A week from today we’ll be moved into a hotel in Old Town and I’ll be listening to the movers drop my good china, and I couldn’t be more thrilled. At this point, we’re in “let’s get it over with” mode, and one way or another this move is going to happen.

As usual, our saving grace is Grandma Jayne, who has been cheerfully keeping two tiny terrorists from burning down the house and having moving-related nervous breakdowns, while pretending not to hear Seth and I sniping at each other under our breaths about packing and the transport of guns and ammo.

Because Jayne is here, I get pictures like this

and this while I’m at work,

instead of phone calls about Finley’s miscellaneous cold symptoms, diaper cream shortages, and daycare transgressions.

Grandma’s extra set of hands has also meant that, while her parents run around like the proverbial chickens-sans-heads and her brother remains blissfully unaware, Finley gets to continue to enjoy pool time with her brother (Baby Ford turns out to be an incredible swimmer), guacamole sessions with her hands,

and pizza night.

Although even Grandma can’t prevent early morning weekend wakeups. (She did provide the Sheriff Callie PJs though.) (Doesn’t Finley look like Nat in this picture?)

I was determined to do at least one “DC thing” on our second to last weekend in town, so Jayne also helped me drag the beasts to the National Building Museum- one of the last big ones Finley hadn't been to- while Seth financed the local hardware store owner's next vacation.

Finley loved the big foam blocks (although in the picture above she was apparently not happy with me for having knocked some of hers down.)

She was even less thrilled about the uber-aggressive squirrels that attacked her for her granola bar at the park afterwards. (Seriously. One lunged at her viciously. It scared all of us, and we had to make a run for it.) This picture, which I love, was taken right before The Horrific Squirrel Incident. Ford looks like he knows what’s up.

I’m down to my last week of work, and the to-do list looms, so the blog may suffer for a bit. Wish us luck! The two photos of the week are this one (courtesy, naturally, of Grandma), because Ford’s looking like such a big, handsome guy,

and this one. Because it’s blurry, classic Finley.

Countdown is on, and a weekend of nothing.

Jayne sent us a cute text last week reminding us that it was our last weekend in DC with just us before we moved. Not that we're not ridiculously excited to get to see both sets of parents (and avail ourselves of their kid-wrangling assistance) over the course of the PCS, but it was a little bit crazy to think of just how fast the clock was ticking on the end of our time here. And how much we still have to do to get ready for this move, for which we will definitely be woefully unprepared.

So we had every intention of doing a big "farewell to DC" weekend.

But we were tired. Seth had turned in his last big paper and second to last take-home test last week, thanks to a lot of late nights on both of our parts. And I was more than a little overwhelmed at the length of our pre-move to-do lists and the complicated logistics the whole thing promised to entail. Plus it rained most of the weekend.

So instead we slept in. Well, some of us (the usual suspects) slept in, and the rest of us made Belgian waffles with strawberries and whipped cream at the crack of dawn.

We squeezed in workouts. (Finley likes to sit on my stomach while I do sit-ups.) (Let's be honest, I only like this picture because it's an incredibly flattering angle.)

 I took Finley to the pool so early we were literally the only people there (she was elated),

and we did some cooking. (My sous chef licks literally everything. Just a warning for anyone having dinner at our house. Like alcohol, we believe toddler slobber "cooks off.")

We had dinner with friends and went to a brunch packed with babies at Black Salt, and we spent hours watching the little guy "work out" in his little gym while Finley feigned occasional interest.

Sunday afternoon, instead of cleaning out the attic and garage, we watched YouTube clips of Snoop Dogg narrating nature videos while drinking mimosas. I am not making this up.

The next couple weeks promise to be a nightmare of packing and errands and last-minute stuff and routine disruption, and we're glad we got a rare weekend at home to do not much of anything at all.

As for the rest of the story on the hairpulling terrorist, we are not sure the daycare-prescribed doll is working since I saw an incident or two Saturday night (although Finley was on her best behavior, with lots of "big girls" to follow around), but Finley's "baby" is a huge hit. So there goes my vow to avoid object attachment. She cries to bathe with the damn thing and, while studiously avoiding her actual brother, walks her baby around in a stroller and puts a pacifier in its mouth. We don't know whether to be exasperated by the whole thing or to feel terrible that we waited this long to get her a doll when she obviously wanted one.

And it does seem to be improving her disposition. The other night, she even tried to share with Ford, who was clearly not interested.

At any rate, it's my second to last Monday at work (!!) and Jayne arrives tomorrow and time is flying and this move is coming up whether we are ready for it or not.

Again, we are not.

Deep breaths.

The photo of the week is of me and the currently-serious-Mama's-girl Finley headed out for brunch. We're trying to treasure the last few moments like these in DC before we put the Capital Beltway behind us forever.