I feel like I have been packing and packing, going through screechy rolls of tape and dizzying myself with Marks-a-Lot fumes and emptying out drawers and shelves and closets and filling box after box, and sometimes I look at the growing towers that are taking over the living room and it seems like I’ve made an enormous amount of progress and sometimes the stacks look like exactly what they are: a very small percentage of the total square footage of crap we have to jam into one 26′ moving truck in a few weeks.
There are the existing boxes and things that have yet to be packed and all of our furniture and also everything in here:
I succumbed to logistics-related panic yesterday and we decided JB would drive a trailer full of stuff when he heads to Eugene this weekend and maybe we’ll end up doing that again, depending on what kind of dent it makes, but my biggest fear is that come May 25th, we’ll fill up the big yellow Penske and find that we don’t have quite enough room.
And really, that’s a valid concern because it would obviously suck, but I’m pretty sure I’m laser-focused on the packing situation because it’s marginally easier than freaking out about the big picture of moving into a house with a short-term lease and renting vs. buying and where it is, exactly, we’ll be living when Riley’s school starts at the end of summer. Will all the pieces eventually fit? Or will we look back and think, damn, we should have planned that better?
I don’t know, and I guess that’s the theme of this whole move: stepping outside our comfort zones and making uncertain decisions based on what limited information we have. Sometimes I’m so excited I can’t wait to see what happens next. But jesus, sometimes I just want to flip past the stressful part of this story to the part where it all works out just fine.