We moved house on the weekend. It was a massive affair. And now I’m sitting on our bed, surrounded by boxes stacked almost to the ceiling in our room, surrounded by even more boxes outside, in our new home.
The past few days have been long and weary. There hasn’t been much time to think, just barely enough to keep on packing and moving, and collapsing exhausted at the start of the next day (when you realise it’s 2am).
I don’t like moving. I always feel melancholy because it forces one to make difficult decisions and say goodbye to possessions that one would need to leave behind and not bring to the new place.
Like our beloved and trusty nine-year-old white Ikea changing table and chest of drawers. That chest has been a wonderful companion, seeing our friend through two children, seeing us through two children, becoming more than just a changing table and a storage for clothes, it also became a place to store our children’s art supplies and completed artwork as well. And now, it’s returning to our friend again to serve as a clothing cupboard for her third child.
And the children’s wooden crib. DS had outgrown it without us realising until just recently. I’d become over reliant on it to keep him contained for naps, but he has started climbing out of it on his own accord, and that’s made it become more hazard than safety measure.
And a whopping twenty-six milk storage and feeding bottles, and two electric Medela pumps. Reminding me of those crazy working and expressing days in the office. I can’t believe I’d ever get attached to an electrical piece of equipment, but quite seriously, I can’t bear to part with them. So they’ve gone into a box labelled “FRAGILE” highlighted in bold and large font and in more times than I could count all over the box. When the boxes with my kitchen crockery have only had the same word written across it once.
These are just a few of the many instances where I paused as I packed, wishing I really didn’t have to.
It’s now 10:56pm, thirty minutes since I first sat down and powered up my computer to type.
And I need to get back to the other day-to-day stuff that doesn’t allow us a break, moving house or not.
Keeping the folded laundry. Sorting through the mail and bills. Sending out the last of the urgent email replies and shutting down the office computer. Washing the remaining dishes and clearing the children’s bath.
Time to snap out of the melancholy and get moving. Again.