I just spent the morning driving around town looking at three rental homes for our family, who needs to be out of our current home in the next three weeks.

This is no way to live, right?

We’re straddling the decision of buying vs. renting in a city we’ve lived in three years and will stay in at least two more in a country where we’re permanent residents. My kids don’t even know about the Civil War (although they know about the Revolutionary one thanks to Hamilton) but they sure as hell know about huntsman spiders and quokkas. Little Brother is starting to say things like fust instead of first and he and The Kid are both aware that the blue-ringed octopus is poisonous.

Meanwhile, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade will air soon and I will sleep through it. AND THE DOG SHOW AFTERWARD.

This is all quite insane.

We were tucked into our three-story suburban home this time three years ago, with our endless yard and a swimming pool across the street. The Husband and I had siblings within walking and half-hour driving distance instead of across the world (maybe this is why I dreamed last night that The Sis died of an overdose? It was horrible; am I feeling guilty or something? Also, she doesn’t do drugs. I don’t think).

But this morning, we had our first (excuse me, fust) family photos taken since LB was a newborn. And we had them taken on a beach across the street from our (rental) home. And afterward, the boys had a quick play on one of their favourite playgrounds before I dropped them off at the schools they love (LB’s recent bullying experience notwithstanding; more on that later). And, yes, we are missing family (and I am missing cornbread and dressing) deeply, but we have a date set for a Christmas celebration with friends who feel like family. And TK’s epic dance concert is approaching–on his birthday. And on Friday night, we went with friends to the U2 concert I’ve been waiting for my entire life.

I have no interest in doing things normally.

My older kid has a diagnosis that doesn’t begin to define him, defined as he is by his kindness and empathy and ability to bring people together in ways they weren’t looking for, never expected, and wouldn’t trade for the world. My younger son has been targeted by a frenemy at school and has watched teachers and friends close ranks around him and stand up for him (while still being kind to the other little shit, don’t worry, though I’m considering purchasing a voodoo doll) and has learned, in the process, to voice his feelings and get special school-hours access to Mommy on occasion. He has learned that the world isn’t always safe but there are safe spots within it and that above all, our family is a team. (TK, for his part, is learning that there’s no I in team).

Friday night, after the rain poured down and the smoke (temporarily) cleared, I listened to songs that have become anthems only because they tell stories–and those stories don’t come from normal. They come from wars and struggle and defeat and triumph and glory. They come from not staying in one place, from standing up for what is right instead of what is comfortable, from faithfulness to what is bigger than ourselves.

So “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” echoes in my head throughout our current real estate saga. And TH and I, on a grey weekend afternoon, decide to tackle the shipment that arrived from America last week, and we find ourselves knee-deep in photos from decades ago, snapshots that tell our stories that eventually merged, and we show them to the two people who came from that merging, and I think about all the turns that seemed wrong at the time that got us here: the outsider status that led me to writing, the prolonged singleness that led me to New York, the diagnosis that led us to the therapist who just asked TK to be in her wedding, the people who led LB to his current hybrid accent, the unwanted offer that led us to Sydney.

An unpredictable, messy, unplanned life. Anything but normal, which can–and I say this with the love of Jesus–kiss my ass.