I'm at that point where I need to know where we're going to move this summer so I can freak out with some specificity.
A few nights ago I dreamed we were moving to San Antonio. I dreamed that my husband and I fought about some minor moving detail (buy or rent? public or private or homeschool? rip my hair out or set it on fire?). I dreamed that I hid in the closet to cry so the kids wouldn't see how upset I was. Of course, it was the walk-in closet from my Maine house and not my current dilapidated, make-one-wrong-move-and-subject-yourself-to-concussion-by-shoe-boxes-and-surprisingly-heavy-sweaters closet. (My current closet is sooo not conducive to hiding.)
The truth is, I'm ready to leave, to move forward. When you come in knowing you have three years and only three years, you set the timer. You keep the roots shallow. When things get hard or annoying or frustrating or lonely, you say to yourself that it won't last forever and then you add some specifics about exactly how long it will last. You do this particularly in the cases when the washer keeps randomly switching to hot water even though you clearly set the dial to cold, or when the tracks in the snow confirm your suspicions that the neighbor's dog is indeed taking a daily dump in your yard.
The other truth is, I'm not ready to leave. A few roots have stretched to depths I never would've knowingly authorized. I'm attached and invested, and I'm going to wince when it's time to pull myself out of this soil. And by wince, I really mean cry like I just walked barefoot for a mile on a pile of upturned legos. My point is that it's going to hurt, and I'm not going to like it. Hence, not being ready to leave.
But ready or not, we are going. And it would be ever so nice to know where, particularly so I can be more targeted and precise in my next panic-induced visit to Google to learn All The Things about the next possible place.
Just writing with Heather.