My father is an excellent mover. He has a knack for puzzling items together so they fit in a space smaller than they should. This is convenient when you are worried that you will have more stuff than will fit in the truck.
He is coming to help Husband and me load during the big move, provided I promise to have all the boxes packed in advance. I have thirty-eight days. This is his third time moving us--his new joke is something like, how else would we see the country, if our daughter wasn't moving?
It rare to have the right help with what you need just when you need it without feeling like your toes have been crushed by well-meaning and appreciated helpers accidentally stomping them to bits, but my dad has a gift for achieving the impossible. Hopefully, I can find some of his magic in the next few weeks, especially considering all the boxes that remain broken-down and empty.
Some odds and ends:
Today's Stats:
Total number of boxes packed: 0
Total number of boxes assembled: 0
Verdict: Packing epic fail.
Husband and I had a small blow-out in the morning about some not-exactly-moving-related-but-vaguely-connected-stuff that we-have-argued-about-before-and-will-argue-about-again. Then we went to the zoo to gawk at the baby polar bear, which was quick and small and so full of play, like his bones and eyes and nose and yellow-white fur were made of play, so much of it that some of the play leaked out and covered the rest of us. I can still smell it in my hair. Later, I'll (probably) do the dishes and dust (Husband has a music student coming tomorrow) while listening to an NPR podcast or two, but no boxes tonight.
Yesterday's Stats:
Total number of boxes packed: 4
Total number of boxes assembled: 1
Injuries: 1--to pride.
As I organized books in boxes yesterday, I came across an old journal Husband and I wrote during our freshman year of college, the year we lived a few hours apart. We have binders of old letters and notes somewhere in the basement, so I wasn't expecting to find this journal among the novels and textbooks upstairs. We took turns writing in it, trading off each time we saw each other, and I was horrified to find out just how embarrassing my writing was (is), though I had (have) my suspicions. His letters are lovely, sincere, and grown-up, while my scrawl and loopy sentences betray my age and inexperience.
It was still nice to be reminded, though. It is strange the things that pop up when you are moving--you are physically taking apart your life, making it into a great puddle knowing the whole time that you'll have to rebuild it out of the glop. It is strange to see what rises to the surface worth grabbing.
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