We have made the decision, set a date and have a little over two months to pack up our house and move. This move is not just another move rather it is a an experiment in reducing and downsizing. We are moving from a suburban house with five bedroom and 3,000+ square feet to a three bedroom 1,400 square foot bungalow closer to the city. Intimidating but exciting. I love the challenge of organizing such a house and I love that the house is ours. I have been living in rented homes for the past four years and the idea of living again in a place where I can paint or remodel a bathroom without having to ask permission sounds glorious.
Although I have the moving process down to a T, as we have done it six times in seven years, I have come to hate the preparation phase. The phase where you begin to de-clutter and wash walls: I loath it. Don't get me wrong I pride myself in keeping a neat home, but when one gets down on their hands and knees you can easily see the massive amount of finger pints on the walls, doors, fridge, well... lets face it; fingerprints are everywhere. The hours it takes to go through every room with a magic eraser is not a task I look forward too (hence why I am complaining about it instead of doing it). Plus the only free time I have is during Cora's nap time and then I really should be tagging items for the Just Between Friends consignment sale, studying for school or working on the Art Show and Silent Auction. I need more hours in the day.
Sigh.
Sometimes I feel like no matter how hard I try I never get everything done that I need to. I have to constantly remind myself that the important things do get done and those that don't weren't that important to begin with. I am exhausted, but show me a mom who isn't. I listen to all the 18 year olds in my class talk about being exhausted from staying up late, partying and only getting three hours of sleep. I remember those days yet I still shake my head. I want to go up to them, grab them by their shoulders and say 'Just wait. You think you are tired now, wait until sleep depravation is forced on you for 17 months.' I mean at least they get a night of fun out of being tired. And to be honest, I don't wish a difficult baby on these kids. I was once like them too. I partied. I stayed out all night. But now I am a mother. A mother who frantically worries about minuet details such as getting finger prints off walls, whether our plastic is BPA free or if I give my kids to much mac and cheese (at least its Annies!).
So yes, this post has no point and no cohesive element what-so-ever, but I now feel a little better about life and can get back to scrubbing walls, rummaging through our plastic-ware and buying more mac and cheese.
The cherry on top? A video of my daughter jumping face first onto the floor. Enjoy.
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