Blech. I’m moving house. And if there is one thing that I hate, it’s moving house. Actually, I don’t mind moving, I hate packing. And then unpacking. And the inevitable vacating clean. I’m not moving very far – only about 25 meters away. I live in an estate, and I’m moving to a different unit within the estate. I’m happy about the new digs, it feels brighter, cleaner, bigger. Better. I’m currently in a townhouse, and the new place has no stairs, which will be great when K starts crawling. It also has a (teeny tiny) back and front yard.
The house I am in now is the first place I have ever lived that doesn’t have a yard. And baby, I’m feelin it. Like, it might sound weird, but I feel totally hemmed in, having no grass around me.
Anyway. So it got me thinking. I realised I have moved SO. MANY. TIMES. Like, possibly on average around once every year and a half.
McPhail Ave. Can’t remember the next street name. Hall Drive. Brisbane Street. Barnaby Street. Ferny Road. Tyalg Road. Gibson Street. Beaver Ave. Ferny Road again. Brisbane Street again. And then where I am now.
So. 12 times in the… 11 years I have been out of home. Thats a shitload, and you would think I would be an awesome packer by now. And in some ways I am. Like, a few moves ago I got fed up with scrounging out the back of the supermercado for old frozen potato chip boxes, went to the local storage joint, and bought 10 massive moving boxes. And after I used them for that move, I kept them, cos they were awesome. So at least I have the boxes sorted. But this time around, I am wrangling a baby. C works night-shift, so he is asleep all day, then off to work just as I am getting M home from school and starting the ’emptyyourlunchboxandgetyourhomeworkstarted’ battle. So not much help. I have approx 4 days left til I get the keys to the new house, and I have packed 3 boxes.
Time to get my thumb out, hey?! After I finish watching Winners and Losers…
Procrastination. The moving girl’s enemy.