Packed Boxes

I think I forgot momentarily that bloggers are supposed to blog. It’s been quite a while since I thought about posting, and that’s normally not my modus operandi. Usually, I’m filing story tidbits in my overloaded brain, jotting down funny and inappropriate things that my kids say, witnessing something in the nearest Starbucks that would set the stage for a fun commentary.

But not lately.

Lately, all I’ve been thinking about is moving. (Have I mentioned that we’re moving? FYI, we’re moving.)

And here’s the thing about moving. It’s a lot of work. It involves a great deal of… well… moving. I’m moving boxes from the garage to the house, moving books into the boxes, moving clothes into the wardrobes, moving the car to Goodwill and Half Priced Books, moving forgotten kid toys into the “Oops, that must have gotten lost in the move” pile. And I’m moving lots of food to my mouth which means that in order to keep my ass from moving involuntarily whenever I move my body, I have to keep my feet moving in my running shoes.

I’m moving Prozac into Maggie’s mouth at warp speed. That poor dog is completely out of sorts. If she survives this phase of her canine life, she’ll be able to survive anything. Mary Claire may feel put upon, but if she could get inside that sad dog’s head for 24 hours, I think she’d feel pretty stable and secure in comparison.

And you know what goes hand in hand with moving? Purging. I’m not a hoarder by any stretch of the imagination. I fill and dispose of large trash bags on a regular basis. But the amount of Stuff that has gathered in this house is astounding. It’s a pretty sad statement about our human existence — we have so much and need so little. The price of the Littlest Pet Shop crap alone could have singlehandedly paid for our moving expenses.

It’s been cathartic, really, this cleansing. I’m sure I’ve doubled the inventory at our local Goodwill. The trash man has probably thrown his back out a couple of times at our curb, and I still have miles to go before I sleep.

It was empowering to give the snowblower to my brother and sister-in-law in Chicago (for those of you who have an e-crush on his blog commenting wit and wisdom, that’s Greg), to pass on the kids’ snow pants and snow boots, to weed through the hats and gloves. We won’t be needing much of that in the South.

I made a pass at Old Navy for the first run on school uniforms. The kids get to wear uniforms next year — and we’re most definitely referencing it as a “get to,” not as a “have to.” Mary Claire is still not on board… (“That TOTALLY stifles ALL my creativity!”), but we’re buying her some funky socks and headbands to help ease the pain of her troubled ten-year-old existence. The kids will be “yellow jackets” next year, so they’re able to wear yellow jacket colors — yellow, black, gray, white. Shirts must have collars, bottoms must be khaki or black, belts are required.


I’m afraid my boys will be stuck in the bathroom trying to figure out how to unbuckle a belt while their classmates snicker at the sink and whisper, “Dumb Yankees.” Athletic shorts, after all, tend not to have belt loops. I’m fairly certain Sam hasn’t worn a belt since he was a toddler. And although I was willing to help him get dressed then, the thought of my assistance now borders on all kinds of inappropriate. He’s going to have to figure this out on his own.

The movers arrive June 14. Then our stuff goes into storage for a few weeks, we begin the “Couches Across Indiana” tour, and the countdown to Starkville looms.

I have to admit that when I think about the Wheaton truck arriving with all of our goods at our new Mississippi home in the 150 degree heat, I feel a little wave of excitement in my belly.

New beginnings can do that, can’t they?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have boxes to pack. We’re moving, you know.

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