Well, the count down to the move has begun and that means packing. I tell myself every time I’ve done this (this will be our tenth in fifteen years of marriage) that this time I’m going to do it well. This time I’m not going to end up with a box labeled “miscellaneous stuff”. This time I won’t be packing my kitchen while the men are loading the furniture into the truck. This time . . .
In the last move I knew enough (barely) not to have high hopes. I was nine months pregnant with the mackerdoodle (three days *after* her due date, in fact) and couldn’t pack an entire box at one time because of my whale like size. I thought to myself, “Well, this time is different.”
So turns out, moving with children is also different.
The first thing I always pack is books. They are non-essential (and yet completely essential), they pack well, and it looks like I’m making progress, which is basically my goal at this point. At least it usually looks like I’m making progress. Yesterday I packed the same box of books THREE TIMES because the cheesedoodle was taking them out as quickly as I was putting them in, and the mackerdoodle was replacing them with other things – like picture frames and her brother’s socks. (“Look mama. I helpin’!”)
So I have grand plans. This time I’m going to do it well. This time I’m packing my dishes in pickle buckets because they won’t get crushed. This time I’m going to know what is in every box, and label it by room. This time . . .
. . . this time I have kids. All bets are off.