We have yet to sell the house, and, largely because of this, we haven't packed a box. If you came over, you would never suspect that such a big change was afoot. But I've always said that that's the way it is with moving (or having a baby): after a stretch of anticipation, the tangible change itself is quite sudden. One day you live here, the next day you live there. One day you're pregnant, the next, you have a child.
It's been very hard to know how much to let Clio in on what's going on. When I was pregnant with Eleri, we didn't really start talking about the baby all that much until I was about 8 months pregnant- to Clio, my belly grew so gradually that the change was imperceptible; time to a two year old is so big and stretched out relative to an adult that we figured starting the conversation too soon would only lead to impatience and, possibly, anxiety. Ever since Clio turned three, she's been talking about turning four, and I have tried to convey how much time lies between two events: I describe all the seasonal changes and major holiday milestones that need to occur before she has another birthday; I stretch out my description itself to make her feel the distance still to be traveled. But here we are, less than two weeks out from a different kind of milestone, and I found myself a little surprised when Clio's friend Elsie showed her Colorado on a map in her coat closet yesterday. There was something so tangible about it, and I feared, in that moment, that I haven't sone enough to get Clio prepared. I had pointed the state of our future residence out in an atlas recently, and showed Clio the route from here to there (it was a road atlas, and, yes, sometimes I forget that Clio is just three) but somehow Elsie's map, with it's brightly colored states and clip-art rendering of mountains in Colorado, was, ironically, so much more real.
We have talked about moving to the mountains. When I talk about our new house, Clio remembers one of the rentals we looked at together, one where the owner lived downstairs and had a dog, and she asks me if our yard will have a stuffed animal in it. I tell her yes and hope I will remember to arrange this when we arrive. We talk about her new school as a place where kids catch butterflies in nets, because when we visited, some children were outside doing just that. We went to Ikea today to pick up additional sheets for Clio's bed (and to clear out of the house for a couple of showings), and as we pulled into the parking lot Clio announced that she would like a Cinderella bed. I asked her what a Cinderella bed looks like, and she said, "Just like Elsie's" - Elsie just got a cascade of white netting over her toddler bed, an attempt of her mom's to help the transition to a bedroom shared with a baby sister. We got our own netting and ceiling-mount ring, and I told Clio she would have to wait for this special princess bed until we got to Boulder, to make sure there is something tangible to look forward to.
But we haven't really talked about the leaving part. We didn't tell Clio yesterday that this was her last playdate with Elsie (though Elsie made a wonderful picture book for Clio that tells the story of their play time together, and she said to "have fun in Colorado"). And I can't quite bring myself to explain that she's almost done going to Titi's house. It seems easier to avoid that anxiety, and to let it happens as it happens. But then I wonder if I am forcing my own preferences on to her.
We have reached the stage of the "lasts" - last mom's night out, last dinner with Elsie's parents- and I find this difficult. My friend Lila had offered to organize going-away drinks for Dave and I, and said something in offering that really resonated with me: she said, "I understand if you don't want to do an event at all; you might not want that moment of rupture." This was a few weeks ago, and as the moment approaches, I realize she is exactly right: I don't want the tear, the abrupt moment of good bye. I would rather slip away, glide into my "new life." But I worry that by not giving Clio more warning, we are creating, rather than avoiding, a moment of rupture.
At the same time, I am aware that kids live in the moment, and that Clio will make new friends and will quickly adjust. Kids trust their parents, and take their cues from us in any given situation. A friend who is going through some major changes of her own said a therapist reassured her that whatever you tell the kids is "normal", they will just take to be normal. So I'm trying to learn from Clio and just live in the present. Tonight, after Dave went off to the office to finish up one last proposal and after Eleri went to bed, Clio and I went outside and sat on the front stoop and blew bubbles. She chased after them and reached up into the sky, pointing out airplanes as the sunlight faded. She allowed me to take her picture, directing me to photograph her shoes, and made very silly faces. I squeezed her tight and told her I loved her, and I'm not sure I've heard anything sweeter than the exact quality of her voice when she said "I love you too."
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