For someone who moved 17 times in 13 years, you'd think I'd be better at it.
You'd think someone with my background of habitat-hopping would be able to pack up and go, effortlessly relocating to new digs.
You'd think.
It must be my age. Sure, I moved an average of every 9 months. But that was my college years and into my 20s. Switching abodes was as easy as changing my hair color - I actually looked forward to it.
Those moves were a lot different. For one thing, I didn't have all the trimmings - I didn't have my grandmother's china, or my other grandmother's silver flatware, or three boxes of Christmas tree ornaments.
I didn't have three kids, either.
Back in those days, my most valuable possessions were a second-hand 13-inch portable television (yes, it was color), a stereo system that included speakers taller than my 4-year-old and a melon crate full of albums. Everything else I owned could be - and was - thrown into large black garbage bags on moving day.
I moved into my last house on Labor Day weekend, 1997. It was the day Princess Diana died; I remember.
It was a good house for us, a good place to start a family. It was a good place to add to a family, too, but by the time the third baby came along, we had some serious space issues.
We looked for something bigger. And looked and looked some more. And looked a little more.
Finally, we found it. We bought a great house with a closing date a good three months out. Theoretically, that gave us (me) plenty of time to plan and execute a smooth, efficient move. I even wrote a story last year about how to plan and execute such a move, so I knew the tips and tricks for success.
I thought all summer about starting to pack, I really did. The last week or so, I did get a few items - like my grandmother's china and my other grandmother's silver flatware - packed in nice cardboard boxes, tops taped down, contents clearly indicated on the outside.
Being deadline-driven, I waited 'til the bitter end to kick it into high gear. I kept packing things in boxes, but somewhere along the way I stopped labeling the outside. Then I gave up on taping the tops down.
The process went south real fast.
I vowed I would not resort to the failures of my youth. But just try to tell me you wouldn't do the same if the night before you were supposed to move, you still had three rooms to pack and your husband was vacuuming the concrete basement floor - for the 16th time - instead of packing important things like diapers and the electric can opener.
I started throwing things in black garbage bags.
And now, a week later, I am dealing with the aftermath, a basement full of cardboard boxes, some of which are labeled and some of which are not, and some black plastic garbage bags that I dread looking in because there's really no telling what they may contain.
It is driving me a little batty.
To wit: It took me six days to find my box of checks, which I really, really needed. I can only find two pairs of my eldest daughter's underwear. And after one full week, I still can't find my toothpaste. (I'm using the kids' "bubblemint" flavor, which is oddly enjoyable.)
I have, however, found a box of crystal sherbet glasses I had forgotten I even owned, the ancient 1980s-era stereo system and my eldest daughter's swimsuits, which will have to suffice until I can find her underwear.
Slowly, I'm chipping away at the piles. I have vowed to unpack for one hour per day, every day. No more (so I don't get overwhelmed) and no less (so progress can actually be made.)
It may not be ideal, but between the kids and my job, it's going to have to do. Moving, even when it's just across town, even when you really want to, is traumatic.
You can't just walk away from the place you called home for 11 years without a few regrets about all the projects you never got around to.
You can't just up and walk away from the place where you brought three babies home from the hospital, and where you fought with your husband, and where the dog ate the Thanksgiving pie, and where you had some of the very best times in your life and some of the worst, without shedding a few tears.
No, you can't just pack all those things up in tidy little boxes, labeled and taped neatly, and take them with you in the back of a truck - no matter how disciplined you are.
Some things just take time to work themselves out.
- Mary Jane Grenzow is the features editor of The Monroe Times. She can be reached at mgrenzow@themonroetimes.com
You'd think someone with my background of habitat-hopping would be able to pack up and go, effortlessly relocating to new digs.
You'd think.
It must be my age. Sure, I moved an average of every 9 months. But that was my college years and into my 20s. Switching abodes was as easy as changing my hair color - I actually looked forward to it.
Those moves were a lot different. For one thing, I didn't have all the trimmings - I didn't have my grandmother's china, or my other grandmother's silver flatware, or three boxes of Christmas tree ornaments.
I didn't have three kids, either.
Back in those days, my most valuable possessions were a second-hand 13-inch portable television (yes, it was color), a stereo system that included speakers taller than my 4-year-old and a melon crate full of albums. Everything else I owned could be - and was - thrown into large black garbage bags on moving day.
I moved into my last house on Labor Day weekend, 1997. It was the day Princess Diana died; I remember.
It was a good house for us, a good place to start a family. It was a good place to add to a family, too, but by the time the third baby came along, we had some serious space issues.
We looked for something bigger. And looked and looked some more. And looked a little more.
Finally, we found it. We bought a great house with a closing date a good three months out. Theoretically, that gave us (me) plenty of time to plan and execute a smooth, efficient move. I even wrote a story last year about how to plan and execute such a move, so I knew the tips and tricks for success.
I thought all summer about starting to pack, I really did. The last week or so, I did get a few items - like my grandmother's china and my other grandmother's silver flatware - packed in nice cardboard boxes, tops taped down, contents clearly indicated on the outside.
Being deadline-driven, I waited 'til the bitter end to kick it into high gear. I kept packing things in boxes, but somewhere along the way I stopped labeling the outside. Then I gave up on taping the tops down.
The process went south real fast.
I vowed I would not resort to the failures of my youth. But just try to tell me you wouldn't do the same if the night before you were supposed to move, you still had three rooms to pack and your husband was vacuuming the concrete basement floor - for the 16th time - instead of packing important things like diapers and the electric can opener.
I started throwing things in black garbage bags.
And now, a week later, I am dealing with the aftermath, a basement full of cardboard boxes, some of which are labeled and some of which are not, and some black plastic garbage bags that I dread looking in because there's really no telling what they may contain.
It is driving me a little batty.
To wit: It took me six days to find my box of checks, which I really, really needed. I can only find two pairs of my eldest daughter's underwear. And after one full week, I still can't find my toothpaste. (I'm using the kids' "bubblemint" flavor, which is oddly enjoyable.)
I have, however, found a box of crystal sherbet glasses I had forgotten I even owned, the ancient 1980s-era stereo system and my eldest daughter's swimsuits, which will have to suffice until I can find her underwear.
Slowly, I'm chipping away at the piles. I have vowed to unpack for one hour per day, every day. No more (so I don't get overwhelmed) and no less (so progress can actually be made.)
It may not be ideal, but between the kids and my job, it's going to have to do. Moving, even when it's just across town, even when you really want to, is traumatic.
You can't just walk away from the place you called home for 11 years without a few regrets about all the projects you never got around to.
You can't just up and walk away from the place where you brought three babies home from the hospital, and where you fought with your husband, and where the dog ate the Thanksgiving pie, and where you had some of the very best times in your life and some of the worst, without shedding a few tears.
No, you can't just pack all those things up in tidy little boxes, labeled and taped neatly, and take them with you in the back of a truck - no matter how disciplined you are.
Some things just take time to work themselves out.
- Mary Jane Grenzow is the features editor of The Monroe Times. She can be reached at mgrenzow@themonroetimes.com
