I take possession of the new rental. Tomorrow. If I get all my confirmations of utilities changes in writing by then. Our thirty days for this rental are up on the 17th. That’s plenty of time to move everything. Right? In two weeks?
That’s the belief I’m going with. Except. I have three boys, who need attention, less they decided to color the house or themselves. Then I still have to do all the regular chores and errands. I’m the only one packing, which isn’t unusual, but this time there are no packers at the tail-end. Then next weekend may be Family Fun Weekend instead of Family Fun Day. Then the weekend after that, I’m out of town.
-Wait. How many days do I have again?
Well, at least we have less stuff! And I gave away a bunch of baby stuff. (Thanks, Kat. I love you. Do you need bottles or spoons?) And I gave away a couple of bags of clothes. And I lugged more than a dozen books to the used book store. Then there’s the yard sale my brother is throwing in a few weeks. And I really have to figure out what to do with my ewaste. See? Less stuff.
But still, I should be packing. Or switching over the rest of the utilities. Or figuring out a new organizational system. Or cleaning. Or looking for a TV stand online. Or (Have I had lunch yet?) making lunch.
So if my posts are short (because I still need to write or I will die), it’s because I should be packing but needed a reason to laugh at the barely contained chaos. If I don’t comment as I often do on my blog or others, it’s because I’m packing when I rather reading brilliant writing by my favorite bloggers.
With a quick glance behind me, I realized I really should be packing. I’m so screwed.