Yesterday, my dad got an email. It was from the venerable United States Postal Service. It was a confirmation of his address change.

He hadn't asked for an address change. His girlfriend did it for him. Seems like a pretty clear signal to me.

Nothing like kicking a guy while he's down, huh? Getting to move houses within two weeks of abdominal surgery, what a treat!

So I just spent my day off schlepping boxes from her kitchen, where she had helpfully arranged all of his stuff, into (and on) my minivan, and then rearranging his room and our old-and-new-again playroom, and then schlepping the stuff out of the minivan and back into his room here. Great fun, on the first over-80-degree day of the year.

And I hurt for him, and I'm worried for his health, physical and mental. And I'm tired.

To make matters more fun, we got to have a brief pause on the drive to her house for Jacob to throw up in the backseat. The good news is, it seemed to be a passing thing, and by the time we got there, he was quite happy to watch ants and peek around corners and mostly stay out of the way while we loaded the van. And he took a two-hour nap once we got home, which made unloading the minivan (and throwing out a bunch of old toys) vastly easier.

I'm just hoping for a 24-hour span with no drama or crisis. Is that so much to ask? Sheesh.