So. Here we are in July (hey, it’s July here at least). July. The month that our adventure overseas is supposed to end. I look at this tiny flat thinking- Oh, shit… we have a lot of stuff. With seven of us, it’s to be expected, I suppose. I thought that once the baby turned one, there’d be less stuff… but alas, there is MORE stuff. Sure, gone is the walker (well, since he walks now he doesn’t need a device to sit in and walk around). Instead, it’s been replaced with a giant red wagon and a little red motorcycle and a Cozy Coupe. Yes, because we didn’t have enough crap to start off with.
Gone is the high chair. That was an accident. We actually needed to hold onto that, but it met an unsavory end. Needless to say, the $5 chair-top booster seat was a great find (thank you flea market page).
Did we need a second table and four more chairs? Well, no. Probably not. We really just needed a table that seats 8. Since our quarters won’t hold accommodation for that, we have two tables. I’d snap a picture if we weren’t in the middle of moving, I promise.
It looks like the misfit luggage store puked in my living room, and the hallway, and the bedroom. There are suitcases and bags and backpacks of every hue littered through out, in half-packed states of packing. I mean, this is my stuff… stuff I won’t see for months. How can I pack everything I might possibly need for the next few months in a suitcase?
On the one hand, things are a tad easier moving from one country to another. There is no option ‘self-move’. We have no choice but use the moving company. They gladly come and lovingly wrap our knicknacks and whoosits in bubble wrap and tenderly place them in a box. Somehow, though, I think they really just throw everything in a box wrapped in paper and hope for the best. They don’t have to deal with me on the other end in a few months when our stuff has made the long boat ride. I’m going to be pissed if they break something, like my plate.
Truth be told, it’s a little overwhelming, though. There is so much to do in preparation to leaving. I don’t mean passports and itinerary. All that is taking care of. That’s our finish line. T-minus 13 days and counting. That part was the easy part.
The hard part is looking around here and being like- Oh, my gosh! There’s so much to DO and I don’t even know where to start. There are 10 days between now and when I hand over the keys to my flat, the home I’ve lived in for the last year (we moved from another one that was smaller, if you can believe it, when the baby was a week old). I say my final good-byes to my friends and my family (not of blood).
It’s stressful, right now, because not everyone is doing their part and doing their jobs. It gives us so little time to do so much and it’s stressful. I know that when I’m sitting my butt in my economy seat, smooshed between my six year old and the baby, buckling down for a half-a-day flight, it’ll be worth it but until then I’ll stress and I’ll worry and hope that everything works out okay.
Gosh, I hope it does.