Packing Heat

I am trying to pack our house so that we will be able to move in a month.  Wow.  I just read that sentence 6 times and went into shock.  It looks so simple typed out like that.  As far as mission statements go, this one is pretty straightforward.  The problem is that I am packing our house while 3 boys under the age of five "HELP" me.  And because I just typed out that last sentence, I need to go lay down for a minute...

I'm back.  Sort of.  I'm afraid that part of me will never come back from this experience.  I'm going to leave a piece of me behind, probably one of the more stable ones I have left.

There isn't enough chocolate in the world to save my kids right now.  I TRY to pack.  Everyday, I try.  As soon as I get a box down and start putting things into it, all three of the little buggers come from all points of the house to gather around the glorious box full of untold treasures.  They are certain the things that I'm packing are worth fighting for. Sometimes to the death.  They have lived with these same items in their field of vision, literally their entire lives and have never batted an eye.  But put those things into a box... and you have temptations they just can't resist.  They unpack each box as fast as I can pack it, then wind up rolling around on the floor, wrestling with each other to see who gets to play with a seashell/desk clock/needlepoint pillow.
I cleaned off the top of the fridge yesterday and I was sure that I'd have to call child protective services and turn myself in before the day was through.  Either that, or become an alcoholic by dinnertime.  For years now, we've used the top of the fridge as a sort of catch-all for broken and annoying toys.  Or toys that we've confiscated because the kids can't control their homicidal tendencies when playing with them. So you can imagine the maniacal glee that filled the air as I stood on a chair lifting down their contraband and the ensuing mayhem that occurred.  They danced around with their arms outstretched, whooping and squealing at the chance to bop each other on the head one more time with a bubble wand.  It took 3 hours of hard work and a healthy fear of prison to clean that fridge top, as well as a lot of blood, sweat and tears.  Not all of which was mine.

I have to give Jordan points for tact because by the time he got home last night, I was NOT the woman he married.  I was an eye twitching, lip snarling harridan who couldn't focus on anything he said.  In fact, he mentioned something about "all of us packing", and my only thought was that we are most definitely NOT all packing.  I don't have a gun, and where did the kids get a gun?  Jordan was the only one of us packing and that was only for work, but now that I think about it I probably shouldn't be packing... wait.  "What did you say, dear?"

I'm seriously thinking of just walking away from everything we own to start fresh in the new house.  We can rough it for awhile and buy more junk later.  Mmmmm.  I just thought of going book shopping and I smiled for the first time all day.