There is nothing like packing everything you were excited at one point to buy, lifting it all, unpacking it, packing it again, lifting it all again, and then trying to climb your way through a mountain of heavy, ominous boxes to make you scream, “Why do we have stuff?” If you asked me right now if I owned scissors, I would tell you that I don’t know. I would tell you that I have seen scissors and I suspect I still own them, but I’m not sure if I last saw them in the house I lived in six months ago, the one I lived in two months ago, or the one I currently live in. I would also tell you that everything we own seems to weigh a thousand pounds, and packing fragile items in Christmas wrapping paper takes a little of the sting out of unpacking.
Moving is a part of life, and it is good. Living in three different houses in a span of six months is a little much. Doing all of this the day after dropping Josiah off at college may have been nuts. Having a daughter get engaged halfway through all the change gives a person facial twitches.
“Have you seen any of my socks,” Mike asked me in a hurry to leave for work.
“Not since the last house,” I told him. “But I think they are packed with the band aids and cotton balls.”
“Mom,” Drake said, “Have you seen my backpack?”
“It might be in the garage, or maybe in the basement. Have you seen the cords to hook up the TV?” I asked as I noticed Mike shove his sockless feet into his shoes and rush out the door.
“No, but the TV is in the spare bedroom.”
“I think I saw the cords,” Emery said, happening upon our conversation. “They are in a box with some candles. Does anyone know where my lunch box is?”
It’s like we’ve created for ourselves a nonstop scavenger hunt.
My dog moved with us. It took him about thirteen seconds to change residences. He paced in agitation until we said, “Let’s go!” Then he jumped into the car and his address changed. I want to be more like my dog.