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When Jenn and I started packing our things three months ago, we did so with the goal of keeping a relaxed pace until March 30th, the day the moving truck was scheduled to arrive. Our intention was to maintain a slow-but-steady packing rhythm until a week or so prior to the truck's arrival. At that point, we would be subsisting on a skeleton crew of belongings--two plates, two glasses, two sets of silverware, two towels, two toothbrushes, two sets of undies, two pair of pants and socks, two books, two cat toys, two etc, etc.  A Noah's Arc of material goods.

As the 64 foot truck came steaming around the corner (our theory went), Jenn and I would affix the last strip of packing tape onto the final box, rub our hands together to indicate a job well done, and take ourselves out for a congratulatory slice of pizza.

The reality was quite a bit different. The last week before the move, Jenn and I pounded the packing pavement up until--and including--the final quarter-hour before our mover appeared like a cruise ship on the narrow two lane street.

It was an odd process, supervising the loading of all of our earthly belongings into the gaping maw of a moving truck. My intellect told me that the truck driver did this for a living; that we had researched a number of moving companies and chosen a reputable one invested in making sure they do a quality job; and that there was no actual reason to believe we were kissing our things goodbye. And yet, as Jenn and I watched the truck swallow up all of our material goods in Oregon, it was still hard for me to fathom that they would somehow magically appear 1400 miles away in New Mexico. Hiring a moving company seemed so ... so adult of us. It was a bit disorienting.

It worked, of course. I met the moving truck in New Mexico, and two days later I flew back to Oregon to make the drive for a second time, this time with Jenn the Pregnant and our two cats in her dark blue, 1995 Honda Civic.

To run with my earlier analogy, I figured we would donate half the mates we kept from our "arc" to the Goodwill petting zoo, pack the other half of our meager belongings into a lone suitcase or a small backpack, toss it into the trunk in a devil-may-care sort of way, add a cooler with some food, a couple of books, and half-bag of cat food. We would buckle the cat crates into the backseat and hit the road. The plan was to let one cat out at a time to stretch their paws and explore the space. Honey or Duma--whose ever turn it was--would no doubt perch atop the rear dash, purring away and twitching their tails at other road weary travelers who would admire how well behaved and adventurous our kitties were. Jenn would laugh at my numerous "Waiter, waiter" jokes and multi-layered puns, and together we would explore a few short hikes in Utah.

The reality, of course, was that Jenn's car was so abso-fucking-lutely packed to the gills that we would have been hard pressed to squeeze a medium-sized flashlight into the trunk without having to bungee it down. The cat crates, rather then resting flush on the backseat, were perched atop each of our suitcases, held in place  with blankets, pillows, backpacks, coolers, water jugs, jackets, and sundry other items crammed into ever crevice between and around them.

Things went well enough until just west of Boise. Jenn had found a way to strategically cushion her pregnant self on the front seat with various cushions to support her belly and butt. The cats took on the glazed, surrendered look of sleep-deprived POW's around hour six, which was about the same time we noticed we had raised our voices to hear one another. As we pulled off the highway to tank up, there was a definite, penetrating rumble that hadn't been there when we had set out. With each mile, the car was sounding more and more like a sputtering Harley. Additionally, I had started to obsess about the well being of our cats, and had visions of the older one dying of shock and dehydration.

When I voiced my concerns, Jenn said that she was "having a reaction" to what I said (i.e. was pissed) because I seemed more concerned about the cats then her--my pregnant wife. While I will deny this base accusation until the day I die and shout to the heavens "Not true! Not true!"--the point was, er, well taken. It tapped into a vein close enough to the surface for me to voice a question aloud I had long felt perplexed by: "Do you think there is something wrong with a man whose chosen profession is working in the field of mental health, but who obviously likes the company of animals more than humans?"

Jenn didn't answer, but arched her eyebrow in that way she does when she is half-amused (but only half), because she knows I know the answer to my own question. It reminded me of an astrological reading I had years ago from a particularly perceptive friend. She studied the chart, looked up at me, and smiled. "From your chart," she said, "it says here that you love humanity with a passion, but it's the individuals you're not so crazy about."

Bada-bing.

Jenn being the positive person she is, enjoyed the drive to Next Mexico. She took in the gradual geographic transition from the dark greens of Oregon to dramatic brown-green hills of Idaho, past the jagged snow caps of the Mormon mountains and glowing red rock of southern Utah to finally, the blunted, brown rock and cactus-dotted hills of New Mexico. After living to Oregon her entire life, Jenn no doubt needed every minute of our drive to transition and prepare.

For my part, I hadn't seen my wife in 10 days and was glad to be with her, but simply put, the drive was a grind--a means to an end to get to our new home so we could dig in and prepare to have our baby. I was packed into a loud, reverberating car with my pregnant wife and two semi-lucid cats, and couldn't get to New Mexico soon enough.

However, aside from the muffler, there are no horror stories to relay, no car break downs (for either of our vintage vehicles), no fatherhood related-epiphanies. Jenn's pregnancy is going remarkably well. She communicates with our baby daily, is enjoying her pregnancy, and creates more and more of our little Celia/Zinnia every day. The fact that Jenn would agree to move to a foreign land and leave the people and place she loves demonstrates, to me, a remarkable amount of resilience and courage.

So here we are. I started this blog with the intention of documenting a middle age man's journey into fatherhood, but it seems to have morphed of late into a bit of a running diary. This will be my last Oregon-related entry.