Stop the presses

It appears I was a bit hasty in declaring to the world that Timothy had accepted the job in Logan and we were moving. Even though I heard the phone conversation myself and thought we were full speed ahead.

After more consideration, Timothy felt strongly that taking the job in Logan was the wrong thing to do. I, of course, am just glad I get to keep my RS teaching position. Besides that, when they said when Timothy would start it wasn't until Dec. 1--so we wouldn't have qualified for insurance for the baby anyway.

In other news. Well, there isn't really any other news. I don't consider Miriam's taking out all the church clothes (I mean all--I had to clear everything out from downstairs remember, so I'm talking about a large number of fancy, lacy dresses) from Emeline's closet and strewing them around the floor/bookshelf, toy tubs newsworthy.

I also don't consider it newsworthy that I borrowed Megan's truck and was all puffed up with pride at how well I remembered how to drive a standard (it had been twelve years), and then this morning I drove it to the dump with the parking brake on the whole time. Lindsay Ann and I noticed the smell--we just couldn't figure out where it was coming from. I recognized that it was harder to drive the truck, but couldn't figure out why. I'll be making an appointment at Cliff's Chevron (where they know me as Jack's daughter--one of the few places where that is true post-marriage) before I return said truck. As a side-note, the same truck was involved in the unfortunate "blow the transmission hauling Andrea's sandbox sand" incident. Sigh.

It is decidedly not newsworthy to mention how entirely out-of-place I felt at the dump where all these men saw me stall the truck trying to back it up. In my defense, I couldn't see behind me because of the tarp covering the numerous weeds pulled out of my garden, so I was nervous anyway. Then to be scrutinized after just being helped to a knowledge of my parking brake error by the man who we paid to be let into the dump. Then to require help to get up into the back of the truck (Lindsay Ann helped), and basically feeling like yelling to the assembled men who intermittently stared at us and the three children who decided to be cheerleaders and yell encouraging words out the windows--"Yes, we have husbands, but they both have broken legs so we had to do it ourselves--okay?!!" And then on top of that, feeling dumb that I felt so out-of-place when there are women like Megan in the world who confidently do everything better than just about everyone and as Lindsay Ann pointed out, would have been in and unloaded in half the time it would take other people. Men included.

I am not Megan however. When we took the second load, a man walked over and asked if he could help--unloaded the whole back in about thirty seconds and gave us his card if we ever needed his services in the future. He trims trees or something.

And now my legs hurt and my back hurts, and I want to have this baby tonight so we'll still be on insurance (until tomorrow--just wait, Miriam will break her arm on Saturday), and so I can walk and bend. Seven weeks isn't that early. Right??

So that is it. Tomorrow I'll start unpacking boxes of books. Or not. It is nice to have them boxed away where little hands don't get into them. Maybe I'll never unpack them. Maybe I'll unpack my books and pack my children. Ah, that's a good plan.