Madly packing

Or at least should be madly packing. I'm at the point where everything is getting thrown into boxes and marked misc. I hate that, but you gotta do what you gotta do...especially when the World Cup keeps pulling me onto the sofa to watch. Sigh.

This morning Joe sat on the sofa looking quite mournful and asked, "Do we get to take the sofa?"
I realized in that moment that I knew exactly what it meant that we were moving across campus... we were packing all of the stuff up here and taking it there. After several probing questions, I found that the kids all thought this move would be like the last few. I would pack up some of their most precious things, the rest would be given away or left behind for others. Especially true of the furniture. No wonder they have been watching me like a hawk as I pack their rooms. No wonder the shouts of dismay when they see their clutter replaced by a row of cardboard boxes. Here I thought they would compliment my efficiency and hardwork. Instead they were wondering what toys and possesions I decided to toss or give away in their absence.

As the sighs of relief washed over their faces this morning, I realized yet again, how important communication is. I know when I am flexing my missionary muscles. I used to live in Uganda, but in my heart I am American, I grew up here and while my worldview has been broadened and expanded. While I will always reflect those years in Africa, I understand the unspoken rules here. My kids, though, are deeply different than me. Their early life in Bundibugyo and their subsequent adjustments to NC and NH have them still playing a catch up game in many regards. Still trying to figure out what's going on, still trying to know what questions to ask, what to assume to be true.

Don't get me wrong. They are doing a super job, but every so often I get a reminder that part of being a missionary mom, indeed the most defining part is parenting them well. More important than packing, even.