Our apartment is a landscape of boxes and cleaning products. We’re living out of one pre-packed suitcase each. We have only one small pot to heat up all our meals and we have lots of discussions about the order of things. As in the order in which we will pack up and then pack into our Penske truck all of this life we have in Iowa.
And then there is the baby. Someone is rocking her in her monkey chair when someone else starts cleaning the kitchen and we suddenly remember that the stench of cleaning might not be good for a newly born. Another moment she’s sleeping in the corner and we almost forget her in our dedicated moving fervor. But then she starts to cry. And is inconsolable.
And it seems sometimes that she’s stressed. But probably I am projecting.
Because I am–to put it mildly–in a state of high anxiety.
It is times like this that I wish I were a pothead. Or a Zen master.
My parents and brother are here to help us pack, which is really sweet. But then I yelled at my brother and dad yesterday when we went to pick up a couch I’d bought on Craigslist. We had the moving van but couldn’t get it into the driveway of the woman with the couch. I wanted to park up a hill and then carry the couch up to the van. They had a another idea: park on a street across from the house and carry it over there. A much shorter distance and not uphill.
But at the time I couldn’t recognize this as a better idea. “Why are you trying to commandeer this whole thing!” I shouted as we stood outside the moving van at the top of the hill.
Luckily both my brother and dad were sweet and just left me alone long enough for me to realize that they were right.
Today is day two of the move: pack everything in to the Penske day. My parents and brother have gone out to breakfast before we start. Marta’s boxing up her computer in the other room. I am rocking Nico with my foot while I write this blog. Then I’ll try to go for a short run, which hopefully will help me be more Zen. Though I’m not sure.
Today we’re combining forces: Marta’s family with my family. Which means we’ll have a bunch of people helping us move who don’t speak the same language. Marta’s probably going to take Nico with my mom to do laundry and run errands–just to get her out of the chaos of the house. Which means I’ll be playing translator-mover back at the house.
Afterwards we’re going out for a combined goodbye family dinner. All twelve of us. Plus the baby. Pizza and in-laws.
And then tomorrow we hit the road. My and my parents and brother and our 16-foot Penske truck and Marta and my mini-mini van. Marta’s going to fly with Nico down to Lubbock in a few days.
All of this seemed like a perfectly oiled machine when we planned the move a few weeks ago. But sitting at the kitchen table now rocking Nico, who is in her monkey chair tucked in between a bag of trash and a mop bucket filled with swisher refill boxes, I have an irrational fear that we will never actually be above to move, that we will instead be trapped in this liminal state of half-packedness forever.
The good news is that Nico is now asleep. And Marta just yelled from the other room that she’s managed to wrangle her computer into its box. So progress is being made.
Wish us luck! And please excuse any and all typos.