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.

#twoundertworoadtrip

The below text exchange more or less sums up my weekend road trip, solo with both kids. It was a complete and total shitshow from start to finish.

 It also merited its own Instagram hashtag, my very first, and the pictures there document some of the hilarity. I don't have a public Instagram (which explains why previous links didn't work for non-instagram users), so in order to view this link: https://www.instagram.com/explore/tags/twoundertworoadtrip/ those of you who don't have an account will have to sign into the one I've set up so you can see them. At https://www.instagram.com/, use username: amysigpics, password: amyspics.

Our harebrained trip was the result of the perfect storm of a change of command at Quantico Friday morning for which I had already taken leave, the Kitchings' imminent move to Tampa and my desire to see the old crew before moving even farther north, an unwritten and due shortly paper on Seth's part, and my big mouth (upon discovery of the latter, I foolishly said "fine, I'll just take the kids to NC myself!")

Easier said than done, it turned out, but Friday morning found me throwing diapers in the car while the nanny searched for clean baby socks, and off we went. Before all was said and done, we had logged more than 16 hours in the car; survived countless traffic jams; perfected the art of car dancing while nursing a baby in the front seat while parked in random parking lots; figured out how to check into a hotel with both kids, a suitcase, and a travel crib all in one trip (trial and error, and it still isn't pretty); and developed a deep devotion to Chick-fil-a (both for its grilled chicken nuggets and for its lifesaving indoor playgrounds.) I had spent a fair amount of time in pack mule mode:

and foregone the consumption of liquids almost completely in order to avoid the necessity of dragging the whole entourage into a public bathroom. (More than once, I thought of the crazy diaper-wearing astronaut.)

The "road" portion of the roadtrip is not something I would wish on my worst enemy. (By whom I mean, the person invariably causing a monstrous traffic jam on 95 right outside of Fredericksburg.) (And I might actually take that back. That person deserves the worst.) Both kids were troopers, but they're just miserable in the car, and even the new Sheriff Callie episodes I had reluctantly downloaded onto the iPad lost its appeal after awhile. Ford slept for most of the trip, which sounds great but led to his staying up all night, and Finley figured out how to surreptitiously get into and devour animal crackers while scrunched in the corner of her car seat so I couldn't see her in the mirror (and screech like a wounded animal when caught and relieved of the half-eaten bag, as poor Missy can attest from the other end of the phone.) Much to my chagrin, she also learned how to take the lid off of her milk and pour it all over the backseat, which is why my car upholstery probably just needs to be set on fire.

But the "trip" portion was terrific. Going places is my favorite thing even with tiny terrorists in tow, and was great to be back in North Carolina. As always, I wished I had more time and had been able to see more friends. It really does always feel like going home, and it was a special treat to get to spend time with old friends who have become family. I don't know how I would've made it through the last ten years (?!) without them, and we enjoyed reflecting on how far we've all come even as the upcoming moves felt a little bit like the end of an era.

Of course, that reflecting had to take place in half-sentences and fragments, due to the hilarious, chaotic, and sometimes death-defying circus that results from the fact that everybody has kids now. (Not just the Kitchings!) Finley in particular has apparently become a hair pulling terrorist who requires constant supervision to avoid my friends' sweet children emerging from playdates with bald spots and major trauma. (It was truly mortifying and a little sad, since I wanted them to love her as much as we do, and she was squarely unlovable, yanking hair every time she didn't get her way. Cue frantic googling, the ordering of child psychology books, and- out of sheer desperation- her first spanking. Which didn't work so we're back to square one, although we thought it was kind of funny that the Hudspeths' house was the site of the historic moment.)

At any rate, this less-than-charming habit is behind her awkward-looking playdate photos, and also my newfound gratitude for "Mom friends" who have either been there or deeply sympathize. And subject their sweet children to her reign of terror in the name of friendship anyway.

 Maggie Hudspeth DOES have the best toys ever, and Finley attempted to play with them all at once. This is her, playing a xylophone WHILE riding a motorcycle. (Motorcycles, incidentally, are her newfound obsession. I believe, based on what appeared to be the exchange of secret signals through the car window somewhere in southern Virginia, that she joined a biker gang while on the road.)

 By Sunday, after two nights in hotel rooms with both kids (who did this both nights and then took turns waking each other up for hours) (good thing I hauled the travel crib in both times) (this is totally the photo of the week, and notice that their little arms are stretched out the entire width of the bed, leaving no room for yours truly), 

I was wiped out and dreading the drive back. As it has been many times over the years, Chandra's pool was a lifesaver. The kids got worn out on swimming and popsicles, and I hastily stuffed them in the car after one final, epic toddler fight club moment. Which was totally Finley's fault. We left in shame, and most likely with a handful of Maggie's hair. I didn't even have time to put clothes on Ford.

But they slept peacefully all the way to Richmond.

And then screamed like banshees until I finally found a Cracker Barrel. Which was actually not a bad place for one last road trip date with the two crazies.

We made it home just in time for bath and bedtime, and for me to declare that we were never leaving again.

Seth's no dummy, and the house was spotless, laundry was done, groceries were purchased, and there was Shiner Bock in the fridge when we arrived. So, as I told Jenn, I don't have to kill him in his sleep. He also seems appropriately impressed by the fact that all three of us survived the trip, and even got some work done on his paper.

He still owes me big time. 

And although I remain a little shellshocked, the #twoundertworoadtrip feels like a pretty big Mom milestone to have under my belt. 

(Pretty sure I'm mixing metaphors out of sheer exhaustion. So here's to Monday, and the fact that everyone slept in their own beds last night.) 

Strep x 4, and Wal Mart in PJs.

Saturday was my second day at home alone with not one but two sick kids, although fortunately (for her/ unfortunately for me) Finley seemed to be on the mend. She got up rarin' to go at 0530, destroyed the house, and woke up Ford. Then while I was feeding him, she (having discovered that she's out of my reach and can pretty much do what she wants while her brother is eating) downed my coffee. The entire mug. And brought it to me empty, as if to say "more, please."

It apparently didn't agree with her. Three diaper blowouts later (only one of which was hers), I gave up on the wet wipes and dumped Ford in the bathtub. Finley lulled me into a false sense of security, leaning over the bathtub and "helping" me scrub him and sharing her bath toys... and then leapt over the side, fully clothed, right on top of him.

By 0800 I was at my wits' end. I did the only think I could think of: I took both kids to Wal Mart (a half hour away, in Germantown!) in their pajamas. You can take the girl out of Fayetteville, it seems, but you can't take the Dirty South out of the dark recesses of a desperate parent's mind.

Of course it was a total disaster. Finley had the meltdown of the century when I wouldn't let her have a bike. (She desperately wants a big girl bike. And a helmet.) The thin and wimpy restraints of this ridiculous cart failed to keep her from multiple attempts to leap from it, and I dragged two redfaced, shrieking kids (and the garden hose I had been determined to purchase) from the store. I cannot be the first person to have created that scene, by way of consolation.

Hell, it's Wal Mart. I probably wasn't even the first one that day.

Both little demons had gotten it together by the time we got to the car, naturally, so I committed another rookie move and took them to Wegman's to grab a couple grocery items. (I can't pass up a Wegman's.) It was of course an abbreviated trip. Finley latched onto a double Milky Way bar that was, for some reason, packaged end to end so that it was roughly the size and heft of a police baton, and yanked it back from me so hard when I tried to return it to the shelf that it went flying and hit Ford square in the nose. Disaster #2 ensued, and it wasn't even 0930. And I still had not eaten. Or had coffee.

So I decided to drive thru Chick-fil-a. (Germantown has all the good stuff.) Only that was yet another fail, since Chick-fil-a drive thrus are legendarily long and my patience is short. Against my better judgment (but very committed to the idea of that tender, delicious chicken now), I hauled both kids out of the car again. And that's when Finley saw the playground. She's never been to a fast food restaurant with a playground, and it exceeded her wildest dreams.

Until she crawled too far up the slide backwards, became terrified and refused to move, and required me to actually leave Ford in the care of a perfect stranger while I clambered up the slide to rescue her. Which was too small, obviously, for my fat ass, so I scraped off half my back on the edge and added to the cacophony of screams inside the tube (but managed to avoid the f- word, so I'm still going to call that a win.)

Both kids screamed the entire way home. Finley, between bites of grilled chicken tenders.

She also poured out her entire milk, which I had foolishly put in her cupholder. That must have been why she was so thirsty, which led her to do this

when I left her next to the car AND my unfinished soda to carry Ford up to the house.

Now she had had a cup of coffee, half a diet Coke, and a chocolate chip cookie she had grabbed from a bakery case and stuffed in her mouth at Wegman's when I was picking out apples. My dreams of naptime faded before my very eyes.

But then, when I went back to the car to get her, she had climbed up into the passenger seat and turned up Trampled by Turtles on the radio, one of my favorite bands. She was seat-dancing along and chewing on a cracker of unknown origin when I sat down in the driver's seat to retrieve my sunglasses and turn off the car. The a/c blowing in our faces, Finley looked up at me conspiratorially as if to say "are we really doing this?!" and bobbed her head to the beat. I gave up and sang along.

And those are the moments that keep you from leaving your kids at Chick-fil-a with a note reading "free to a good home."

It had been a week, that was for sure. After a trip to the ER on her fourth straight day of running a fever, we found out that Finley had strep.

And so did the rest of us. Seth and I had spent most of the week in an elaborate juggling act to make appearances at work while not leaving our banned-from-daycare kids at home alone, and by Thursday- which involved two trips back and forth to work for each of us, and a hasty emergency room handoff- we were run ragged. I took all day Friday off, and planned a sick day on the couch for all three of us.

Of course Finley's antibiotics kicked in first, necessitating pool time while I gulped penicillin and prayed for 6pm.

By which time we were all feeling a little better (antibiotics are magical), so Seth and I made another terrible decision and took them to happy hour. We had done it successfully once and should have quit while we were ahead. As you can see from this collage, Finley had a terrific time anyway. And the angel baby slept peacefully. Seth and I took turns scarfing burgers while violating all conceivable liquor laws, chasing the little terrorist up and down the pedestrian street with wineglass in hand. (They were having a sidewalk sale. Finley loves sidewalk sales. Apparently.)

The rest of the weekend was a blur. At some point Seth went fishing

and fried up his catch. I got the house cleaned and celebrated with mimosas. We all started to feel better and I made it to the pool with Finley, although SoulCycle was a bridge too far. Ford, who loves TV although we never actually let him watch it, convinced his Dad (who had had a beer or two) to let him stay up half the night watching "Straight Outta Compton." I am not kidding.

For the first time since I can remember, going to work on Monday is an actual relief. I still have a bit of a sore throat, but sitting at a desk with cough drops seems like a vacation, comparatively.

At least our sick week yielded some terrific photos of the week.

This is Ford, asleep mid-bottle, as I found he and Seth on the couch Friday night (Seth was racked out too).

 And Finley, giving me the "don't even think about taking away this ice cream" look.A classic.