- denial. As in, “Oh, we don’t have that much stuff. It’s going to be no problem.”
- panic. As in, “Oh my goodness– we have more stuff than someone from Hoarders! What are we going to do?”
- pragmatic optimism. As in, “Let’s stop panicking and just pack a box every spare minute we have.”
- noticing progress. As in, “Wow, we have no towels to use or dishes to eat on because they’re all packed.”
- ready to be done. As in, “There are no more boxes. Or tape. And we have 6 more rooms to pack.”
- desperation. As in, “Let’s email the buyers to see if they want to keep all the junk in the basement.”
- moving day. This is when the movers show up and tell you they need a bigger truck and it’s going to cost you $1500 more.
- moving day B. This is when you look at the new house and realize the couch is too big for the wall you were going to put it on.
- the day after. As in when you look at each other and swear you’re never doing this again as long as you live.
- amnesia. As in 3 (or 6 or 24) years later when you decide to move again because you can’t remember the horror of the last time. (This stage reminds me of what happens after childbirth.)
We are currently in stage 3. Every spare moment is filled with packing of boxes or secretly throwing things away when the children aren’t looking. (Pediatric stages are different. Right now, J is in the, “I’m going to miss this piece of Kleenex on which you drew that picture of the cute fruit bat during church in 2001” stage.)
It leaves very little time for making meals, which is why we’ve been eating take out a lot. And rice and beans.
It leaves very little time for cleaning up, which is why there is a half-eaten piece of pizza on the counter (10 points for Gryffindor if you can tell me in the comments where it is.)
So let’s just look at the photos of muffin-making cousins and peonies that I can’t take with me and call it a day, shall we?