I hate moving. Moving is depressing. It's hard, exhausting labor. It's taking not only your personal belongings, but also your cherished memories of times both good and bad, and packing them up into little boxes.

We just moved out of our apartment, where we lived for the past year. This was our second home together since getting married. This was where our firstborn son spent his first year of life; where he learned to crawl; where he took his first steps. It doesn't help that we've had to move in with my parents temporarily, until I find a new job and we can afford to get our own place.

Moving is a massive undertaking. Even with help, it's taken us weeks to get it all done, with three days of frantic activity right at the end. I've had time to read my email and little else. Forget all about keeping up with what's been going on here.

I hate moving. This is the fourth time we've moved in three years. I sincerely hope our next move will be for a longer duration.

I don't expect anyone to reply to this post. I'm just venting some pent-up emotion. Don't mind me.

Gri"never did find that missing keychain that my father-in-law bought me in Italy"shny