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Moving is like…..

I absolutely completely and totally loathe moving. Seriously. Worse. Thing. Ever.

I would rather get a pelvic exam while simultaneously getting a root canal than move my stuff. Really. There are so many things that make moving the worse chore in the world. Let me show them to you.

Taking things from the kids is like trying to get a top off a bottle when your husband isn’t home. (SN: I mean, really, does my husband go around and glue the freaking things on before he leaves for work? I can NEVER get a top off of a bottle of ANYTHING (pickles, pasta, etc) when he’s not here. Do. Not. Get.) It’s that freaking hard. Photobucket I mean, the kids freak out when I try to take anything and put it into a box if it belongs to them. They scream. They cry. They pound their fists. They yell, “I need that!” They tell me, straight-faced, that it’s theirs and I cannot have it. It’s, like, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Ever. And, when I think about the fact that some of their toys, for at least a month, will be in the storage shed, then I start to panic. And beg the husband to find one more spot to shove one more toy so I don’t have to see my babies cry and Oh My Gawd, where do these tears keep coming from? UGH. I’ve never had to do anything this hard.

You can pack up a whole room, just don’t turn around. Because when you DO turn around from your packing? Everything will mysteriously unpack itself. It’s absolutely amazing. Like the little toys from Toy Story — everything seems to have a life of it’s own and jump out of the box when you aren’t paying attention. It’s annoying as hell. Either that, or your crap multiplies. Which is nasty. But, it does one of the two. Somehow. Someway. I just know it.


My husband & I both channel Red when we move.

Statistically, half of the nation’s divorces are caused by packing and moving.* It may be the late nights packing. It could possibly be thewalking back and forth from the truck to the house with really heavy boxes. Either way, my husband and I? We cannot stand each other when we move. He’ll yell at me because I’m not moving something the right way, I’ll yell at him because I didn’t want that thing packed in that box, or because he didn’t label! the freaking! boxes! (How. Hard. Is. It?!?!) By the end of day one, we are so angry at each other that the kids are running around yelling just to be part of the fun. Because it’s not stressful or anything without all the yelling.

You begin throwing away things you know you want, or will need, but you just! want the packing! to stop! Yesterday, I threw away my hand-knitted, half-finished blanket. By accident. Kind of. Crap.

You find stuff that you didn’t know you had. And it’s not always pretty. Seriously. Sometimes it’s scary.

Just so you know, moving sucks. Don’t do it ever again.

Because the next house my stuff plants itself in? Is where it’s staying. Yes. I say that everytime.

I’m not really great at keeping that kind of promise.

On the upside, I’d make a swell politician!

Also: I won’t be around this weekend. Hopefully (surely) next week, I’ll be back.

*Probably not a real statistic. Probably. Maybe. 


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