Yesterday my mom came over and we packed for maybe six hours straight. There are boxes everywhere but it just doesn't feel like I've made a dent. Troy already had stuff here when we got married. I brought stuff in. People gave us hoards of loot for our wedding. Four years of "stuff incurring" has transpired. We had a baby. He got stuff. It doesn't seem to matter what we sell, what we pitch into the trashcan, what we burn, bury or hide, there's just a whole lot of substance to pack into containers, boxes and bags. She'll be over soon and we'll do it all again. Except, you know, different stuff this time. (Love you, Mom. Could NOT do it without you.)
In other news, does anyone, I repeat, anyone, want to buy my house? Come on, you know you do. Or, if a whole house is just a little too expensive, how about an organ? Actually, you can just have the organ, take it away from me. Toddlers love 'em.
I should probably get a move on (hardy har I crack myself up). There's packing and laundering and stressing to be done.
And, yes, I miss my family. I'm trying not to think about it.
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