When you’ve lived in a home for several years it isn’t easy to move, as Hubby and I recently discovered.
Deciding what to do with everything is a major challenge, especially if you’re married to a man who doesn’t understand how sentimental value can be attached to worn out furniture items that even the Salvation Army wouldn’t take.
If it was up to Hubby, everything except his man cave decor and his collectible beer glasses would be labeled as “give away.”
Our home wasn’t cluttered enough to lose our children for more than a day. Even so, we needed to downsize. Getting Hubby to compromise on what stuff I was allowed to keep and what was to go practically took an act of Congress.
Conversations leading up to the move went something like this:
“Remind me again why you are keeping three boxes of paperback books when you have a Kindle and an iPad?” Hubby would ask.
I would begin to explain, but Hubby’s eyes would roll back into his head and he momentarily stopped breathing until I stopped talking.
Towards the end of packing when the boxes began to seem insurmountable, Hubby lost his patience.
“We are going to need a moving truck the size of China to move all your “sentimental” items!” Hubby shouted. “Downsizing is supposed to mean reducing in number or size!”
“So if I get rid of you is that downsizing?” I calmly asked.
After that he stayed in his corner and I guarded my boxes in my corner.
This past Saturday was the big day and Hubby picked up the largest moving truck the rental center had. While we were only moving from St. James to Sleepy Eye (about 25 miles), don’t let the mileage fool you. Moving is a crazy, sinister proposition no matter how little or great the distance–Hubby and I have handfuls of our own hair and some of each others to vouch for that.
The day of the move only half of our help showed up at the appointed time. We began short staffed regardless. If there was one thing that Hubby and I agreed on it was getting this undesirable task over with ASAP!
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The absolute worst part of a move, in my opinion, is the move-out cleaning. It’s like punishment for not keeping the house cleaner the past several years.
Hubby and I were astonished at the filth we had over-looked while living in our previous home. It made us realize if we’d fired up the vacuum a few more times or occasionally cleaned out the fridge, we could have spent more time getting settled and doing fun stuff at our new place.
“None of this misery has to happen if you just pick a place and stay there,” my brother-in-law reminded me the day of the move. He’s been our loyal help for the past four moves. “Can you please be done moving now?” he asked.
By noon we had the truck unloaded, but not without a couple casualties. Unpacking the kitchen revealed a few broken dishes. In addition my brother-in-law did a maneuver on the plastic we laid down to protect the carpet that the U.S. Olympic gymnastic team would have marveled over.
After the dust settled Saturday afternoon it was just Hubby and me and 3,000 boxes to unpack.
A back-breaking weekend from hell, another three days of cleaning and two months to sort through cardboard boxes in search of the man cave TV remote will seem worthwhile eventually. We knew where enough stuff was after the move to make a meal in our new house and get ourselves ready for work the following Monday.
That said, I hope this is the place Hubby and I have picked to stay put. Unless, of course, we find ourselves having to move again in the next two to three years.
In that case I might just book reservations for us at separate loony bins.