At the time, I was drowning in lists. I no longer had a kitchen table; we’d sold it (or given it away? I don’t remember). We were getting immunizations and snapping passport photos of wiggly preschoolers and typing elaborate packing lists into spreadsheets. I found myself longing for the moment I would snap my seatbelt buckle on a Uganda-bound plane: At least then, even if there was more to do, I couldn’t do a single thing about it.
In the midst of said hurricane, I retrieved some medicine from the pharmacy. My kids were bouncing up and down like little pogo sticks. “We’re moving to Uganda!” one of them brightly announced to the pharmacist.