On Saturday, I'm moving, again. That will mean we'll have lived in 3 different houses in the span of 7 months. Hopefully, this time we'll stay put for longer than a 2 year old's attention span, but who knows?
Why the move? I don't want to talk about it.
But when you move, you have to take stock of your shit. (Why the 40 remotes? None of them work. Should we throw them away? Is Soph now ready to give the dolls to charity? Does she play with the blocks anymore? If I give away the size 20 pants, will the weight suddenly land right back on my ass? Should we go ahead and move the 5 boxes of trash from the office, again, without going through them, again?) I just did this 7 months ago, and am barely recovered from giving away the board books. Plus, 7 months ago I gave away my size 14 pants, and now I wish I hadn't. I don't want to take stock of my shit, because that means taking stock of my life, and I try to avoid that as much as possible, even if to do so I'm forced to play Scramble for 3 hours a day.
Also, the sweet, kind souls who are helping you move get to see your shit. And I know they're not judging--but I still feel the need to create the illusion for them that I am an organized, together person who stores all the batteries and light bulbs in one strategic location, rather than spread out all over the house, handily lost so that each time we need them we just go to the store and buy more.
Plus, some of my shit is private. Last time we moved, someone, and I have no idea who, packed and moved the stuff in the sex drawer while I was over at the other house. Now don't get me wrong--it was nice of him/her to do that, and there was nothing too exciting in there, but nonetheless, someone, not me, put the condoms and what have you into a box, labled it "master bedroom" and packed it into the truck. Because in my heart, I'm really a Puritan about such things, this really freaks me out. (Aside, this box was lost, and only discovered--in the laundry room--1 week ago while I was finally UNPACKING THE LAST BOXES FROM THE LAST TIME WE MOVED.)
And not to get to "men are from mars women are from venus" about it, but men and women, at least E and I, don't see the process or the work involved in the same way at all. This causes us to have to communicate; something we've studiously learned to avoid after 15 years of marriage. We have to talk about expectations and time tables and money and work allocation. I get that he's the one who is going to have to move the washer and dryer and couches up stairs and down stairs. That will suck. But so does packing and unpacking the kitchen, pummicing (a word?) toilets, and suddenly realizing that the ceiling fans haven't been dusted in 7 months.
Did I mention I'm going back to work on Thursday? And that Soph's birthday is Friday?