I’ve decided I’m just going to go ahead and have a panic attack followed by a not-insignificant nervous breakdown over this move. You know, just get it out of my system already. No point putting it off any longer.
Oh, why, you ask?
Well, I’m packing like a madwoman and barely survived getting the boys’ rooms packed up and cleaned yesterday. Tom is so busy at work that he has done almost no packing; as he brings in the coin, this is to be expected. This afternoon we have a guest coming for a few days and our guest room is piled high full of stuff to store in the PODS in my driveway. Tom has two business trips coming up, and then will very likely be leaving for Chicago before the house sells. I’m freaking the hell out over finding a house in Illinois because it’s winter and apparently no one in the school district we picked wants to move. Oh, or they want my left kidney/firstborn/soul/all of the above. In packing I have to touch nearly every single thing we own and even though I cull the crap in the house on a regular basis, sweetbabyjesusonapony we have a lot of stuff. Then I freak out because any house we find back home is going to be smaller than we have here and where are we going to put everything? Then after I get the PODS packed up, I have to go through and patch and repair and repaint and then the realtor comes in and we stage the house and then we pray it sells quickly while attempting to keep two boys and a dog from messing it up. And then I get to pack up the remaining stuff in the house and drive 1000 miles with two kids (one of whom is INSISTENT that he is NEVER going to move) and a dog. Oh, and I think Rosie may be sick, but how can you tell if a basset hound is lethargic? I’ve had a niggling headache for several days and I’m sore as hell from lifting weights on Monday. Cooking around here has become “use it up or move it” so it’s been a lot of digging around in the freezers. In the big freezer is a year’s worth of beef that we bought in September and the chances of us moving it across country is nil. Atkins Diet, anyone? Every room in my house is torn to hell and I’m freezing.
I’m going to crawl under my desk and suck my thumb. If you need me, the password is “transporter.”
Right after I clear out the guest room…