My Moving Moving Story, by La Rainette

You know, moving is a lot like childbirth: If you remembered how much it hurt, you'd never willingly do it again. (just kidding, mischief_wa. Actually, I would say that childbirth is less painful than moving. Or at least, much quicker.)

Now, thinking that a house looks much bigger once everything is packed and ready to go is a common misconception. The truth is, it looks much smaller, since all the bulky pieces of furniture are still firmly in place, only they're empty and you have to navigate through a sea of boxes filled with their former contents.

( So you want to move? )

So, imagine the scene. It's Saturday morning, and the kids are still in their pyjamas when the doorbell rings and in come 4 tall, muscled men in T-shirts (it's snowing outside, but they figure they'll soon warm up).

They come in and start moving. Once they have a box (or two, their energy and strength seem boundless) in their arms, they do not see where they are going, which is when the girls jump excitedly into their way. Two accidents involving heavy boxes and tiny toddlers are narrowly avoided. So I dress them and drive them over to the friends' who have offered to take them for the day.

And then it starts for real...

( moving silliness )

And now we live in the New House that isn't quite as new as Tadpole had hoped... And Husband is out of town for 2 weeks, so everyone else insists on sleeping in my bed (Froglet, Tadpole and the cat. I considered emigrating to one of the girls' beds, but I know they'd just follow me wherever I go, so.)

BUT! The coffee-maker is up and running, finally. Hallelujah. Now I can face the world again. *yawns* Well, maybe I should catch up on some sleep, first.