Packing paralysis, part 2.

I finally got myself to a doctor today. I do fine until 3 or 4 in the afternoon and then fall apart. I couldn’t swallow and had a fever. Get thee to urgent care. Hrumph. Viral. I should have known. Motrin. Sudafed. Rest. Fluids. Blah, blah, blah.

I’ll be kicking my feet up in my new digs by this time next week. I’ll rest then. Tomorrow I pack my stash. I can’t wait to go through it. It’s been ignored for the better part of 6 months and it’s been calling to me. “sew me…sew me…” I’m ready to play again. It’s a tossup. Is is better that I have a dishwasher or time and a place to sew…hmm…what to make first…

I farmed Ella off to a friends house today so that she wasn’t trying to “help” me pack. She digs packing. Always has. But somewhere in the pile of boxes is a tiny box with nothing but glue sticks in it. I need to move faster than that. She came home tired from playing but she hit her sister tonight for the first time. I suppose that’s what I get for telling her to “work it out for herself” when she came to me hollering that Amelia was wrecking her tent (blanket on 2 play chairs). I know exactly where she got that. Her playdate is a very physical little boy who doesn’t have as much language as she has and he’s a handful. Ella is always a pain when she comes back from a playdate there. This little boy’s mama likes having Ella around because she’s a good influence on him but he’s an awful influence on her. I just can’t believe that she all out hit Amelia. Amelia wasn’t hurt but still…it earned Ella an early bedtime with no stories. I’m sure the neighbors thought that I was beating her with a hot poker with all the hollering coming from her room. Going to bed without a story is practically a crime around here.

My mom is coming tomorrow to help me pack. Actually, she’s coming to criticize how many bath towels or shoes that I have. Just pack it woman, and quit thinking. I’ll go through it all later. I know I have too many towels and I’m sorry it bothers you. And shoes? It’s not a crazy amount. I just never get rid of any. And I don’t know why. But why does it bother her so much?

I describe my house as “organized packrattery”. You never know when you might need it. And I’d be hella pissed to go out and buy it all over again when I just had a perfectly good whatever and threw it out. I’m pretty sure I was born in the wrong generation. I would have made a great housewife in the 30’s or 40’s. Except for the whole “clean the house in a dress” thing. I love to make food from scratch. I love being home with my kids. I dig Tupperware. I like to sew. I like to make do with what I have and I like reusing things until they can’t be reused.

Wednesday, I pack my room. That will be the hardest of all. I don’t even like sleeping in here. I so wish that Stephen’s dad wasn’t in Texas this winter. I wish that his family could come and get what they want right now. I don’t want to do this alone. And yet, I can’t imagine somebody else doing it for me. It’s like the last thing that I can do for him. Decide what to do with his stuff. What to save? What to keep? What to donate or give away? I found his watch today. His brother will probably want it. But what if one of my girls would like it? It’s one of those concrete things that can be passed on.

See? Just pack it and stop thinking about it.

I hate this. I could use a drink.

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