I should be packing.
I’ve (we’ve) packed boxes and boxes and BOXES in the last few days. And we’re not done yet.
Dave says 65. Madame Pessimist say 30. Hint: I’m Madame Pessimist.
I wish I could show you just how much we’ve done versus just how much we have left. But I think I packed the camera charger. We’re at the point of just throwing crap in boxes. I’ve written the words “Random (insert room here) Stuff” too often.
Buuuuuut the pile gets bigger, and the mess gets smaller. And that’s a nice feeling. Also, we took apart one of the five big pieces of furniture making the trip. It wasn’t much, but it was heavy and labor intensive and made us feel accomplished. Anything to mitigate Dave’s crippling overwhelment. Not a word, FYI.
Dinah HATES the kitty condo, as we call the master bath, now decked out in kitty fabulousness. Last week, she started peeing… ON EVERYTHING. It wasn’t working out for me, especially when she made the pile of clean clothes her very own personal septic tank. So we moved her big, clean, awesome litter box into the master bath, removed anything not easily washed, threw in ALL of her toys, tied several to the towel racks, filled her bowls, and stuck her in there. No one to eat her food, pooh, or rolly balls. She can climb to her heart’s content.
I don’t understand the animosity here, but Center of the Universe is not impressed. She’d rather pee on my clothes and take swipes at the brothers. Oh well… not happening.
It’s an adjustment period.
Gratefully, thankfully, blessedly, my three other children are completely unfazed by the melee in their abode. They don’t care what’s going on, regardless of understanding.
I think they’ll all be fine. Even that Dinah-Monster.
Now… to fold clothes.