I don’t remember moving ever being this stressful.
We moved a lot growing up, by the time I had graduated high school I had lived in 6 different cities in 3 different countries. I had lived on the east coast, the west coast, and by the time I was in my mid-20s I had even lived places in between.
My mother always coordinated the moves, and always managed to pack up an entire house, bribe three children into packing, start getting angry at three children who still hadn’t packed yet and the movers were coming in two days. She found houses, got utilities set up, and in one case even drove from one end of the Trans Canada highway to the other with three kids in tow and nothing but an early-90s bag phone and three Weird Al Yankovic cassette tapes between her and insanity.
Now that I’m trying to get a move together I fully understand what she went through and I now truly appreciate her efforts. Because I have done everything for this move.
I’m the one who set up house viewings and drove 9 hours with an infant in tow to look at them.
I’m the one who set up the utilities.
I’m the one packing the boxes.
I’m the one coordinating getting stuff up there.
I’m the one concerned with transferring health and car insurance and setting up renters insurance.
I’m the one looking at changing banks.
I’m the one looking for a job.
It’s starting to get to me. I walked into my mother’s house after a few days spent at the in-law’s and I started to freak out.
A complete, total, trembling, unable to breathe freak out.
I have until a week from Friday to get all the stuff together. Get everything packed. Make sure I have all the stuff from this house that I want to take north with me and will need in the new house. And before next Friday, I still have to wrangle a baby, read a chapter of anthropology, complete two modules in the course, take a final, go to a doctor’s appointment about a suspected UTI or kidney stone, hydrate like a champ and receive an IVIG infusion.
My to-do list is on my full-length mirror and takes up the entire thing, with extras added on in the margins. One of those little extras:
Easier said than done.
I know that freaking out does me no good. I know that it raises my blood sugars and lowers my immune defenses. But I can’t help but worry. I can’t help but be concerned over getting everything done that I need to get done.
It doesn’t help that I’m not getting much in the way of support from Lord Imp, save him taking the baby from me up to his parents so that I can focus on getting things done, but while taking the baby out of town does free me up to get things accomplished, it in and of itself doesn’t lessen the burdens any. Part of the issue is that I really don’t think he understands what we’re doing here. I don’t think he understands that we’re not going to school, we are moving. As in, picking up our lives and transplanting them to the Keweenaw. Which I just had to Google to make sure I’m spelling it correctly.
I wish he understood that the reason why I do everything so far in advance is because I don’t have the energy to leave things to the last minute like he does. He’s an engineer, engineers by definition leave everything until the night before it’s due. I can’t do that, my body just doesn’t let me. I have to spread everything out so that I don’t use up all my spoons for the next month before everything is done. Shit, I start writing papers a month before they’re due.
I’m exhausted and in desperate need of some R&R. But I don’t have the time to take it. I don’t have the time to sit on my butt and relax and get everything done that I need to get done. I really need it though, I’m tired and in pain and running out of immunoglobulin (although that bit is really just me being overly dramatic). My blood sugars are all over the damn map, after my pseudo panic attack I spent several hours over 200 mg/dL before I crashed back down in a dramatic fashion despite canceling my temp basal hours ago.
To make matters worse, I made the mistake of leaving Baby Imp on the bed a couple of times and she fell while I had my back turned. All it took was looking for a Sharpie or trying to fix myself a plate to eat and BOOM! Baby on the floor, likely having conked her head. I gave her some Tylenol for the pain and an enormous bottle after letting her scream on grandma’s lap while I wolfed down a supper of a chili cheddar brat and a small salad consisting of frozen greens, and she is now conked out to the point where I had to shake her and call her name to get her to stir. I’m honestly freaked out over that as well, although she is breathing and both times she fell she immediately calmed down when I held her. The total height of my bed is only 16 inches from the floor, since I am heavily anti-bed frames because I will just only shove shit under the bed. My carpet is rather soft and if not for all the crap I have strewn all over the floor due to my weird packing routine, worst-case scenario she would just have a bit of a rug burn on her face.
But I’m convinced she nailed her head not once, but twice today. And I’m scared.
And I’m tired.
And I’m stressed out.
And I really need someone to help me with the slack.
Instead, I’m going to blog. And make no sugar added blueberry jam. With wild blueberries.
But first, I’m gonna pack a few boxes.