Nomads

If you are feeling a little confused about where we are living, don't worry, you are not alone. I feel like most of my phone conversations with friends and family members start out with a hi, how are you and the next question is - now, where are you again?

I did the math the other day, when turning in the move out notice to our current landlord. From the day of our marriage, Aaron and I have moved a little more often than every nine months.

I feel lucky when ever I know we get to stay in a place for a WHOLE year. Mainly because I get so sick of packing boxes. I feel like I'm always packing or unpacking. After about ten boxes I always dig out Thoreau and start subjecting Aaron to lectures on how a man's possessions often own him and he becomes a servant to them and we should throw everything away. Aaron, a dedicated pack rat, usually calmly continues packing our heaps of books into liquor boxes (they are the PERFECT size).

But right now Aaron isn't around to pack. It's just me and Reuben packing away. Since Reuben is too young to enjoy my tirade, I'm faced with some serious temptation. All that stands between me and the dumpster/his house is my love for Aaron and my knowledge of his love of his "stuff," crazy heavy law dictionaries and all. So I keep packing away.

Reuben is definitely growing up accustomed to boxes all over the place. Today he wasn't feeling great so he took the initiative to pack a big box full of blankets, then crawled in and snuggled up with a ball, a book and a few cracker for almost a half hour. I made him take his nap in his real bed, but as soon as he woke up he immediately crawled back into his "nest" to draw on the cardboard.