S reminds me daily how many days are left before we leave for Qatar. I've asked him to stop because I've done such a fine job of cramming myself into this lovely state of denial that I don't need to be brought back to reality by a 10-year-old.
I don't dread being there; I just dread going. Wait. Maybe dread is the wrong word. hm. Nope, it's the right one. I dread the packing and the cleaning and the 4,698 things I'll remember I've forgotten just as we're heading out the door and toward the airport. However, I did pack my shoes. That wasn't so painful. Unpacking the 10 pairs that I'll probably have to give up in order to make room for necessities like sunscreen, school uniforms, and the kids' Wii? Dread. I've also packed an entire box of books since I've been told access to English-language books is pretty limited. Ron wonders (aloud) if that's the best use of space. I answer (aloud) that it will be cheaper than buying all those titles when we get there. The economist in him relents. Aside from the books and the summer shoes, we're still using much of what I'll need to pack, so I can't really get a move on quite yet. It's just as well since Ron keeps forgetting to bring home boxes from work for me.
Aside from the packing and cleaning? How about a 13-hour flight with a 2-year-old? And not just any 2-year-old, but the 2-year-old that lives with us and made it very clear to me shortly after he was born that my mental health demanded he be the last of our brood. I'm starting to hyperventilate again just thinking about it.
Back to my state of denial...