You know you've been at a hotel too long when the staff calls your children by their names and you find yourself giving a shout-out to fellow long-term guests.
But I've also come to realize that I am a completely spoiled American. Here I am complaining about our month-plus term here, and today I learn that routinely there are (military, of course) families who come through here and stay for four, five, and even six months at a time!
And some of them have had small children. I confirmed this.
Why it takes some people four months or more to find a place to live is beyond my comprehension -- it's not like staying here is free or anything. Like, find a place already. But it gave me perspective -- again -- about how things could always be worse.
But THE CLOSING is scheduled for Thursday, so go ahead and pray for no snags anyway, ok? Just because it could be worse, that doesn't mean we wouldn't be any worse for the wear. I won't even go into the headache it has been to get our funds available to be certified for the Title Company. Suffice it to say that Bank of America -- where the money is -- does not have any banking centers in Ohio. Not a one. The ordeal is not even completely over yet, and I've been working on this since last week. But, hey, we still have about 36 hours. No sweat. (But if those funds aren't released by Thursday, I am the one who's going to need to be certified.)
Going back to the name-calling, I have to qualify that because the housekeepers actually are just a little confused about the boys' names -- and we made a promise not to set them straight. I was first tipped off when I very clearly heard one of them call, "Hey there, Conner!" and when I looked for the kid who had my son's name (since my Conner was in school) I realized she was talking to Sean-Peter.
We have, like, a gazillion baby blankets in this place. Eight, to be exact. And three of them are Conner's. As in, the 12-year-old. (Still feels weird. That number. "12". My baby. Sniff.) And one of those three has his name on it, and, randomly enough, it's the one that keeps getting mixed up in the laundry when they change out the sheets.
One of the times they brought back the blanket, the housekeeper, such a sweatheart, leaned down to Sean-Peter -- who's as eager to answer the door as any puppy dog -- and said, "Here you go, Conner!" Of course, Sean-Peter's incoherent jibber-jabber couldn't have corrected her if he'd wanted to. But John was right there, only before he could think about saying anything he looked up and saw Conner in the doorway giving him the wave off and motioning, like, "Ix-nay on the lanket-bay!" Apparently Conner has finally become self-conscious about the fact that he still sleeps with three blankets. Yes, three.
One of them has become so strung-out that it can't hardly be called a blanket anymore. I actually do call it his "strings", and he reacts like I've insulted his sensitivies.
Poor guy. He has no idea I've just posted this photo for all the world to see. At least, all two of you who are reading this. (Hi, mom!)