The last three weekends have been a blur of packing tape, cardboard boxes, and trash bags. Progress was slow the first two weekends, but this weekend the shelves are finally starting to look bare. And yet, everywhere I look there are more books, more toys, more things that need to be packed up.
It’s never ending.
This isn’t my first move. It’s not even my first move with M. And yet, it’s like I’ve never done this before.
I don’t remember vetting movers in the past. Did I really just call one company? And who were they? I mean, we didn’t have much when we moved into this house, but we sure didn’t move it ourselves. Or did we?
And what about all this stuff? Do I really have to box it all?
How do you move what’s in the fridge?
Why do we have not one, not two, but three Candy Land games?
Why is there packing tape on the bookshelf?
How do we figure out how big the new rooms are so we can figure out what furniture goes where?
Where do I stack boxes when I run out of space in the hallway?
WHY, why are there so many books?
If only one of us can carry anything, how am I supposed to deliver the TV I promised to a friend?
What am I going to do with the bunk beds and changing table we no longer need?
Who’s going to deliver all these unwanted books to the public library?
The questions are as endless as the stuff.
I have no doubt that we’re going to figure it all out. I have even less doubt that it will entail more than a few trips back and forth in the car, even after hiring professional movers.
What is questionable is whether I’ll make it through with the rest of my sanity intact. But that’s OK; our new home is a haven of tranquility and I’m getting to be a pro at ignoring the chaos of living among boxes.