One of the biggest concerns I’ve had about moving out and away from my kids (since, of course, I cannot pay my home mortgage) has been how they would cope with the change. I mean, I get upset if I find out my favorite brand of socks has been discontinued, so I could only imagine how my kids would feel about their Mama moving out of the house. I talk a good game, but I love my children so fiercely that it’s been barely possible for me to talk about the divorce and the kids without bursting into tears.
Damns. I just burst into tears again. Looks like I’m going to need a new keyboard and now.
I was very careful, when packing my stuffs up and loading my life into a truck, to make sure that the kids would have a place they could feel at home. My new apartment is small, but cozy. It’s been partially decorated, so I can even call it slightly homey (not, as you may expect, “homie.”). Deliberately, I chose a place so near to one of the parks that the path is literally behind my buildings. I may not have the bedroom for the kids (yet), but I do have a space for them to call home.
In that vein, I’ve been careful to snatch up any toys that have been long-forgotten and shoved into bins in the basement formerly known as my own. And I’ve happily accepted any fun stuff the kids might like, while I quickly replaced my kids lovies with as an identical match as I could find. Hey, I’m not above bribing them with toys that are strictly for Mama’s house.
The timing was fortuitous for me as I’d been asked to do a giveaway (after trying the product) for kids from The OrganWise Guys, who promote understanding of how the body works and how to be healthier by following a set of educational games followed by some plush toys. It’s not quite the same as Oregon Trail, but I’m pretty sure my digital kids would be all, “what is UP with that green screen, Mama?” and the anatomy nerd in me, I won’t lie, squeed at the chance to teach my children about anatomy while they learn eating habits so they can grow to become doctors and buy me a house and diamonds and stuff. It’s a little more on-level than the Grey’s Anatomy book I’ve been reading to them since they were babies. And the diamonds? I figure it’s the least they can do to pay me back for those sleepless nights.
Amelia, my wee book nerd, was especially impressed. That girl will read ANYTHING she can get her wee paws on.
Alex is, well, he’s a dude. Watch. Trust me, it’s… he’s a dude.
And lastly, we unveiled the kidneys, which were much cuter than when I’d dissected them on the A&P slab. THEY’RE EVEN HOLDING HANDS, PRANKSTERS. When I stop dying of the awesome, I’ll let you know.
(note the matching Capitol Kitty’s in the background – Amelia was especially impressed that she’d managed to put both of her cats together.)
While I’d wanted to play a game with the kidneys, possibly, “hide the kidneys” or, “let’s cuddle with kidneys,” I didn’t. Mostly because the kids both fell asleep inside my sparkly pink ottoman after this shot was taken. Don’t ASK me how. I can barely sleep in a bed, but they’re happy sleeping inside furniture. Kids are weird.
So The OrganWise Guys are giving away the very same game to one of my Pranksters. Why? Because they’re awesome.
To enter, leave me a comment telling me what YOU’D do with a pair of plush kidneys.
For additional entries, you may do the following (please leave a comment for each – I’m not too bright):
*Follow me on Pinterest
*Like my Facebook Page (which I have NO idea what to do with)
I’ll pick a winner (heh) in one week – October 10, which I feel something important is going on, which makes me uneasy, because if there is something, I’ve forgotten it. I’ll also give you one last day at this giveaway before I pick a winner!
Moving totally screwed with my mojo but I’m SO almost done!
Moving is not my forte. Well, I suppose that moving is NO ONE’s forte, but there are people who move for a living, so perhaps they enjoy their job. I can’t be sure. So I’ll go with “most people hate to move.” I, myself, as previously stated, am one of those people.
It’s not the packing or unpacking, it’s the goodbyes that go along with it. While moving from a house to an apartment wasn’t quite the same sort of job that required actual movers or anything, it was still hard to say goodbye to the home I’d been lovingly restoring for years. I never expected to leave.
I’d begun moving on Wednesday, the day after the Comcast debacle began, which, I’m beginning to doubt that Comcast actually DOES care, or they wouldn’t have made me waste approximately two days to get Internet, but that, my wonderful Pranksters, is neither here nor there. (but it does make an excellent story for another day)
Box after box, I loaded into the van, pretending to be an overly large ant simply bringing offerings to the queen. It helps if I can visualize something like that or I get annoyed at the bruises that now make it appear as though I’ve been thoroughly beaten with whips and chains or boxes I happened to fill just this side of too heavy.
Three trips later, we were nearly done transporting boxes from this place to my new home, all over but the furniture and a couple of boxes that could only be packed at the last minute because they contained items like, “Marshmallow Fluff” and “Socks.” I mean, a day without socks is a day not worth living, and I wasn’t stupid enough to wear flimsy flippity-flops to move in, although that does seem to be something I’d do. Four inch heals? Sure! Let’s go run a marathon! Imma beat you motherfuckers! Just as soon as I fix this broken heel and nurse the 27 blisters on my feet that I got already. Wait, it’s ONLY been two minutes? That’s bullshit.
It was weird, seeing my life packed up like that. I’d always thought that I had more stuff, but it turns out that my ritual purging had truly paid off. And not just because I’d already managed to dump my shit at the scary Salvation Army donations center, but because my life in boxes? Turns out, that well before this debacle began, I’d purged just the right amount of stuff to fit into my one-bedroom apartment. In fact, the only things I really needed to make my house a home were pieces of (cheap) furniture.
Target, you are my BFF forever and ever and ever. Except for the Pranksters who are my family.
Saturday, I brought my Muppet girlchild with me to the U-haul place nearby to pick up one of those truck thingies and managed to fill it – in one trip – with the furniture I could call my own, which means that I’ve been able to actually sit somewhere that is not the floor while I sort through my crap.
Slowly, I’ve been unpacking, cleaning, and placing things in my very own space. Because the space is smaller than the home I once lived in, it’s been much easier to utilize the space that I do have, paring down the items I own further, and making my apartment my home.
While leaving my home of 7 years has been incredibly hard, for the first time in my life, everything seems simpler.
More put together.
Calmer. More organized.
Much, much happier.
“Hey,” I said over Instant Messenger. “Guess what?”
“What?” he replied, (justifiable) trepidation evident.
“I need your help this week,” I replied.
“With… what?” he asked, looking for clarity. When I need “help” with something, it can be anything from getting my whites whiter or building a shrine to BILLY FUCKING MAYS in my (former) backyard, and he knows it.
“Um, stuff,” I replied, aiming to be as vague as possible so that I could get a “sure, no problem,” without having to answer second-level questions.
“Like…?” He replied, apparently knowing me too well.
“Building stuffs,” I dangled in front of him like a carrot. I know him well enough to know that building shit = happy pants, while I’d just as soon cut off my toes and make a necklace of toe bones to wear than put stuff together.
“Ooooh! I like building stuffs!” He said, happily.
“I know! That’s why you’re perfect for this,” I said.
A couple of hours later, he showed up at my house, knocking before entering. I answered the door, kids piling over each other like a barrel of puppies, each trying to get him to greet them first. He swept them up into his arms and kissed them hello. “Hi Babies,” he said, brushing hair from Mimi’s face so she could see. She still stubbornly refuses to wear clips in her curls, which can make things like “walking” and “seeing stuff,” a little challenging for her.
I stood there, biding my time, waiting for him to be done with the children. Or, I should say, the children to be done with HIM.
“HEY,” I said, as he disentangled children from his frame, which they’d climbed like a couple of monkeys (without, thankfully, throwing poo)(THAT TIME). “Got something to show you. Meet me out front.”
With that, I walked into the garage and flipped the switch, opening the garage door which protested wheezily, but obliged. I walked out into the sea of boxes and held my hands out all jazz-hands meets spirit-fingers style.
“TA-DA!” I nearly shouted, trilling the last bit, relishing one of the last times I could be loud without the worry of irritating one of my neighbors in my new apartment.
“Woah,” he said.
“Where’s the stuff to build?” he asked.
“Um, somewhere in there,” I gestured to the pile of boxes I’d packed, wondering how I’d manage to pack a life into so few boxes.
A smile played mildly on the corner of his lips.
“You just conned me,” he pointed out.
“Yup,” I said, proudly. “Now let’s get moving.”
He stood there, shaking his head, amused, before grabbing a box and playing crap Tetris in the back of my van.
“Thanks,” I said honestly as we drove to my new place. “Thank you.”
And thus began the next chapter.