We’re going through the vodka in earnest. I sip the cranberry juice mixture as I listen to my four month old fuss herself to sleep. She’s found her toes this week and it complicates her ability to nap.
The vodka sat on the shelf untouched for over a year, as we bought it shortly before we learned about the pregnancy. (This is not to imply that my husband stopped drinking for the pregnancy; there used to be some gin up there, too.) The point is we have to get rid of everything for the move. The consumables must be consumed. Two days ago—because I’m counting—my husband was offered a research position to be a PhD student in Trento, Italy.
My initial reaction is to dwell on minutia and the details that won’t confront us for months or more. When my hair dryer burned out this morning, I commented to J that I might have to do without a hair dryer until we move: no point in buying one that won’t fit European plugs or wattage. I set the table and consider whether we should bring utensils from home or buy new once we arrive.
Then I wonder where we’ll store G’s crib, the beautiful solid birch crib that we spent the most money on of any nursery item and that she won’t get to sleep in through her first year. If I thought of things and milestones we’re walking away from—no grandparents or great-grandparents at G’s first birthday, and will some of these relatives even be alive when we return?—I could never leave. I have to think on what we’ll gain in experience and the way we’ll get to know ourselves and each other all over again. I pray that learning to live within 58 square meters, to cook in metric, and watching my husband teach our daughter to ski in the alps, that all this is a rich trade off.
In the meantime, none of us speak Italian.
G doesn’t even speak.
