But I Don’t Like Pasta

Remember my sneaky sotto voce aside about discernment and being bad at it?

Well, the time for pondering has come and gone. Decisions have been made, authorities have been notified, and the grandparents have been traumatized. In less than 2 months, we are packing up our worldly possessions and moving these bello bambinos of ours to the eternal city for a crash course in Italian immersion.

That’s right folks, we’re that crazy, and we’re moving to Rome.

Dave was presented with a career opportunity we simply couldn’t refuse, and so after much prayer, conversation and weekday drinking (which was really just practice for our new lifestyle) we’ve decided to pull the trigger.

Are we excited? Um, yes, a little bit.


Yes, that too.

We have one gluten free family member and one lactard in our ranks, so the land flowing with cheese and pasta is going to be culinarily…challenging.

I also have a rather virulent aversion to heat, so summers should be fun.

But I digress.

We’re moving to Italy, people! With babies! And we don’t speak Italian! We’re crazy!

And now, I must be tending to the somewhat daunting task of liquidating the entirety of our worldly possessions, minus a few outfits and our digital camera.

Which brings me to one final piece of information: anyone in the Denver area wishing to buy an entire houseful of furniture, $2,000 + worth of baby gear and a sensible Honda Accord in dark gray, call me, maybe?

Until next time friends, Arrivederci.


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