The boxes are many. The sleep is none. The chaos is eternal.
Let me start with this: we survived.
Barely. I am here, in the new house. My body exists. My soul has filed a formal complaint. My brain is somewhere in a box marked “bathroom – probably.”
Let’s talk about the move.
If you've ever relocated with children, pets, a spouse, and responsibilities, you already know: it’s not a move. It’s a full-blown multi-level scavenger hunt where everything is sticky and no one knows where the extension cords went. Add in "life still happening" and you’ve got yourself a full-on circus without a ringmaster—just me, aggressively labeling boxes and stress-sweating into a Sharpie.
The Packing Phase (a.k.a. “Shove Everything Into Boxes and Lie to Yourself”)
Remember when I said I’d label everything clearly, color-code the tape, and keep an inventory spreadsheet?
Hahahaha. HAH. Oh, sweet summer version of me. That was adorable.
Instead, our packing strategy became:
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Put things in a box.
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Panic.
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Label the box with whatever room you wish it goes in.
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Panic again.
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Seal it with tape and a silent scream.
I’m pretty sure one of the boxes just says “NO,” and another is labeled “kitchen/bedroom/random.” We’ll find out.
The Move Itself
Picture this: three children, one half-assembled bed, and seventeen bags of miscellaneous “stuff” that nobody packed properly but everyone kept throwing into the backseat. There were boxes. There were so many boxes. Some had boxes inside them. At least one was whispering threats. (I assume.)
Also, I definitely injured a muscle I didn’t even know existed carrying a box labeled “Pillows – light,” which LIES. Those pillows were filled with betrayal and betrayal alone.
The New House: A Puzzle Without a Picture
Every room is a new adventure. Where’s the cutlery? I don’t know. Where’s the baby shampoo? No clue. Where’s my will to live? Probably in the same box as the modem and the measuring cups.
I feel like a tired raccoon sifting through someone else's campsite. The children? Thriving in the chaos. They’ve built a fortress of bubble wrap and are trading old socks like currency. My spouse remains weirdly calm—probably because he hasn’t opened a single box.
Meanwhile, At the Old House…
Oh right. We still have to clean that place. There’s a tower of trash bags, smudges on the walls that could be ancient toddler glyphs, and a haunting whisper of “you forgot to clean the baseboards.”
Bonus fun: we need to find new tenants. Nothing screams “trustworthy landlord” like a half-cleaned house and the ghost of someone who hasn’t slept in 3 days trying to sound enthusiastic on the phone.
In Conclusion
We’ve moved. The chaos is real. My back hurts. The fridge is unplugged. There’s no system, no order, and definitely no matching forks.
But we did it.
No one died. The Wi-Fi is back online. And I had a full cup of tea this morning without reheating it five times.
Victory.
Now excuse me while I go yell into a linen closet and attempt to find the bathroom towels I swear I packed together.
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