And somehow my mom has conveniently booked at trip to the District "to see my sisters" next week.
That is code for "heaven help me, I can't handle helping you move..."
But not really.
It's ok. I know where I rate, and it is understandably below the cute little grandbabies.
We are moving.
Tonight I spent some time pulling out nails and washing walls, trying to erase the evidence that we have lived here for almost 17 years.
And it makes me melancholy.