Packing it In

Right now, it looks like we’ll be moving soon. I say “right now” because in the next couple months I could be paid a bazillion dollars to write a sitcom, I could win the lottery, I could meet a single, rich man who wants half a dozen kids, or my ex-husband could decide to get a job and pay all the back child support he owes me. Oh, I crack myself up!


But really, you never know what might happen. Every time I try to make plans, I feel like God laughs at me, so I try to make the best decisions I can with the information I have right now. And then I go with the flow and realize that the best-laid plans sometimes change.
I’m not looking forward to moving because all my friends are here, all my kids’ friends are here, and we like our town.  I don’t want to start all over finding good stores and schools and doctors.  I don’t want to live without Chicago pizza.  And most importantly, I don’t want to pack up seven people’s stuff.  <—That last part has to be said in an annoying whine while stomping your feet to get the full effect.

As much as I don’t want to pack, I resigned myself to boxing up my belongings. I started in my bedroom today. Now, I’m not a pack rat. I frequently go through our possessions to keep clutter at bay. I throw out, donate, and organize stuff all the time. When seven people live in a house that’s about 1100 square feet, if an item doesn’t serve a purpose, it doesn’t have a place. So, tell me, why is it that I threw away twenty new, blank checkbook registers today? I’ve used the same register for the past ten years because that’s how often I record my banking transactions. Any decade now, I’ll need a new one. It’s a good thing I saved so many of them.

I also weeded out five checkbook covers, two chargers for old cell phones, and nearly fifteen pounds of stationary. The last time I wrote a letter on paper, I was in the third grade. I had three broken hangers because, well, you just never know when you might need a broken hanger to hang up, um, a ah, shirt with one sleeve? I had a dozen boxes with a handful of leftover Valentine’s Day cards in each, and a sandwich bag full of bingo markers, despite the fact I’d gotten rid of the cards a long time ago. 

I think the most ridiculous best things I found were the half a petrified bagel, the spoon covered with some sort of brown goo, the piece of American cheese that had turned into a rubber coaster, the forty-eight empty fruit snack wrappers, and the rotten apple that had sprouted legs and was chasing me around the bed with a Lego sword.  I know that sounds disgusting, but I have a waterbed and I can’t exactly move it out and clean behind it.  Clearly, I need to get out the yard stick more often.

Tomorrow, I think I’ll tackle the boys’ room.  If you don’t see me around here for a few days, call in the Marines.