My house has become an obstacle course. Everyone continually asks us how the packing is going, and I tell them my home has become a maze of boxes. I think they think I am joking, but if you were to come to my house, you would see that clearly, I am not. Boxes are stacked three and four high and several rows deep in most rooms, including the hallways. I have so many bruises on my legs from running into boxes that I could be a poster child for abuse. I think of these box-packed rooms often as something of a gauntlet.
My panic has mostly subsided over the fear of not getting done in time to move. We have a good portion of our things packed, save for the kitchen and our clothes. I also have not packed many of the kids’ toys yet. I actually had tried to pack some of them, but suddenly, toys that they seldom play with became prized possessions. Since those were the toys that they couldn’t have, then those were the ones that they wanted, and they kept coming along and opening the box and taking them out. I decided it was somewhat of a futile effort and just gave up until closer to moving day.
I must say that Chris has made great strides in our downsizing efforts. He has willingly parted with many boxes of things that I never thought I would see go out the door. As we were sitting in the living room last night, we were sorting through some boxes and talking, and I was drinking a glass of very good pinot noir wine out of a Garfield mug because my mom packed all my wine glasses when she came to help me on Wednesday afternoon. I told him that I was proud of him for getting rid of so much stuff. He told me that, for the record, he was done getting rid of his things, and the stuff that was left wasn’t going anywhere. I told him that ten years ago, he never would have imagined parting with all the stuff he is now, so who knows what will happen in another ten? A girl can hope, can’t she?