Moving Blows

We have moved.

Every box (except one full of Olivia's dust-infused stuffed animals that I'd really like to burn) is unpacked. Pictures are hung. Most mornings, we are able to find everything that we need (except for Olivia's supply of jeans which have mysteriously disappeared).

This move has taught me a few things but the most glaring reality is that I am most definitely NOT an organized person. Admittedly, I am a bit OCD but I have learned that I really shouldn't confuse my need for absolute control with being orderly and methodical.

For example, I began filling boxes the second that we decided that the entire family would be moving to join my husband. I was disciplined in how many would be packed each day. I took my time to carefully wrap breakables and label according to room and contents. I anointed myself the "Moving Queen" and expected all in my immediate environment to bow down and worship my single-minded pursuit of packing excellence. On moving day, we were going to wake up, throw our bedding into a pre-assembled carton, empty the fridge and be on our merry way. DELUSIONAL.

When the moving truck showed up, I was in the kitchen, hair wild, gulping coffee and frantically throwing dirty dishes into a box. What I had eyeballed as being a few things turned out to be EIGHT last minute boxes of stuff. The movers were very patient with me because I suspect that they could smell the crazy in the air.

My plan was to finish the last minute stuff, leave with the kids and cat and make a fifteen minute stop at Bentonville schools to formally withdraw the children and make our way to our new town in time to register them at their new schools. My car was stuffed full of all my compulsive weirdness (toilet paper, rags, Comet, the vacuum, lamps and an outrigger canoe paddle), the children and the cat. I was managing in spite of the fact that my head is buried up my arse.

My second organizational failure was during the withdrawal of my children from the Bentonville school system. Apparently, I am still living in the June Cleaver era where women did housework in pearls and pumps and everyone said things like, "golly" and "shucks". I thought I could show up at the office of each school, tell them we were moving and have them give us a wave and wish us good luck. Not so.

We pulled up to the junior high so Dylan could clean out his locker. The cat was warbling in this weird throaty voice which caused the kids and me to laugh. I didn't give it a second thought figuring he was unused to the carrier and would settle once we got on the road.

We walked into the school to speak with the registrar. She informed me that Dylan would have to go to each of his eight teachers and have them sign off on his departure. Textbooks would have to be returned, library and lunch accounts settled and ALL FRIDAY ASSIGNMENTS TURNED IN. Gulp. What I believed would be a simple process took an hour and ten minutes to accomplish. My head was throbbing and the cat's communication had turned from cute into a steady, baritone whine like something you'd expect to hear emitted from a house possessed by demons (think Amityville Horror). It began to worry me. He was clearly distressed. I kicked myself for not getting him some kitty Valium for the ride.

We drove to Liv's school and went through a similar albeit shorter process. Mission accomplished. Finally.

As we drove out of the parking lot, the cat's pitch elevated and then abruptly stopped. Dylan howled, eyes scrunched closed, mouth a puckered, white splotch on his face. The cat had peed.

In the ballistic nylon carrier.

Not waterproof like the cheapy plastic carrier WE DIDN'T BUY.

Oh. Dear. God.

To make matters worse, the cat flicked the offending liquid from his paws out the mesh part and onto Dylan's face and torso. I gagged. Dylan came unhinged.

We were a freak show on wheels.

And we hadn't even left Bentonville yet.

My third and final organizational miss was locating my son's immunization documents. I meticulously went through every single paper I had in my possession looking for his shot records. I had love letters from my university days, pictures from high school and car payment receipts from the FIRST automobile that I owned. I found phone numbers and addresses of people I couldn't remember but no little yellow card detailing the torture I put my kid through during the first five years of his life. And without this record, the school district would not enroll him.

I'd like to tell you that the day got better from there, like it HAD to, right? It sort of did:
-The cat passed gas, which had us all panicking but luckily, a fart was just a fart.
-I did not get the children registered for school which turned out to be fine because I drank beer instead.
-The house was dirty but I cleaned before the moving truck arrived which satisfied the overwhelming nesting urge that took over the moment I walked in the door.
-Our stuff arrived intact and only three pieces were damaged. Yeah us! Small note to self: DO NOT LEAVE IT UP TO MOVING MEN TO ARRANGE FURNITURE. EVER.
-The smell of cat urine did not linger in my car once the carrier and my son were removed from it.
-Olivia made six new friends within two hours of being at the new house.
-I slept in the same bed as my husband with the knowledge that we wouldn't have to say goodbye Monday morning.

All in all, it could have been worse, I suppose.

Moving is just a little bit like giving birth. There are months of anticipation leading up to the event, the chaos of the day itself and then after a few weeks, the horror of it all begins to fade and you tell yourself it really wasn't that bad and that you could do it all again if need be. I'm not quite there yet.