Today I’m cursing a lot. It’s fuck this or that, when I can’t buckle the seat belt or forget to drop off a letter in the mailbox. Except for my aching shoulders and this sleepless night, you wouldn’t know that tomorrow, we leave our home behind. I tell myself that if we want it to be, this whole thing is temporary — That there is no right or wrong in an adventure. There is only growth. But this leaves me more daunted than comforted. We’re living out of suitcases now. Couch-less. Tables-less. Toy-less. Our lives are neatly tucked into a corner of the bedroom. Yet, we are calm. Life seems normal. We laugh over cans of beans we can’t open, because we prematurely gave away our can opener. We order food and argue over what we’ll eat. Our big boy finds ways not to go to bed. “Come here mama,” he says from his blow-up mattress. He opens his arms, and I snuggle in. “Today was not a good day,” he tells me sweetly. “I forgot to eat my lollipop.” The baby is doing this funny face where he’ll scrunch up his nose and show his four little teeth. He’ll turn red from straining then stops and laughs. He does this over and over again. My husband is working still — preoccupying himself with unfinished projects. He smiles and hugs us a little more than usual, and I know he is silently taming his own storm. Yet, we go on as if tomorrow isn’t really upon us. As if our roots aren’t already uncomfortably exposed.