Dellabee and Me

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Archive for the month “April, 2009”

Unpacking

Here is a pile of unpacked items in the garage.

Here is a pile of unpacked items in the garage.

You know that rule about things that are still unpacked after 3 months are not getting unpacked? I suspect it is more accurate to say if it is still packed after 2 weeks, it ain’t moving.

I don’t know which is worse about moving: packing, unpacking, or the unshakable guilt that I didn’t rid of more stuff before we left.  And I am now going to officially turn this post into a “blame the husband”  post.  Because my husband, great guy that he is, is also kind of a…um…hoarder. 

Another wall of unpacked items - pardon the flash fom the bike reflector.

Another wall of unpacked items - pardon the flash fom the bike reflector.

See this picture right above here?  See all that stuff?  See the white boxes stacked neatly behind the bikes against the wall there?  Out of ALL that crap, the white boxes are mine.

Out of ALL the stuff in the garage, that bit of clutter is directly attributable to me.  The rest? If it’s packed, it’s my husband’s.

Great pile o'tools and man-gear

Great pile o'tools and man-gear

I think not only does he tend to hold onto stuff, he also accrues alot of things too.  Do you see all the tools?  Our previous home had a large garage with a workbench, and I am pretty sure the collection grew at that time. 

Additionally, my husband’s hobbies/interests are much more clutter-inducing than mine.  I like to cook, so I guess maybe I have numerous small appliances – which is sort of like the tool collection.  But he also collects music equipment and instruments.  Exhibit A:

Big boy toys with the little kid toys.

Big boy toys with the little kid toys.

This is a photo of the playroom, which I envisioned as a space for the kids’ toys and movies, a place they could play and I could lounge lazily on the couch without having to get up to get something for them because of course it was all going to be right there.

Except-

the guitar stuff needed a place to live.  Yes, that amp is what bands use.  To the far right, that thing sticking up is a didgeridoo.  Yes, you read that right.

All this leads up to my conclusion, which is both that I have largely unpacked most of the stuff that pertains to either our children or me personally while my husband, well, let’s just say if we were keeping score I’d be in the lead.  And that I have far less stuff than he does.

This last photo is the stuff that is truly mine.

Two small boxes, a roll of quilt batting, and an old tv/vcr combo - note the ironing board is in fact my husband's.

Two small boxes, a roll of quilt batting, and an old tv/vcr combo - note the ironing board is in fact my husband's.

I am the winner!

 

Back to the unpacking…

Road Hump

Road Hump - what more can I say?

Road Hump - what more can I say?

I am looking into my options for kindergarten for my oldest, and being new in town I made some calls and discovered an “arts” school in our district that is free.  It is not in the best part of town, though.  Armed with the GPS and dellabee, we headed into the city and were shocked to see a sign exactly one block from the school that said “prostitution free zone.”  Thank goodness for that.

I noticed these other signs though.  There were many speed bumps in the streets around the school and posted near them were signs that read “Road Hump.”  Road Hump?  Am I the only person who thinks that is the stupidest phrase for a bump in the road?

It just conjures up dirty images in my infantile mind.  I don’t think I can pursue this school, between the prostitutes and the humping road. Who knows what I might find at pick up time…

How do you know?

I am really impressed when I meet people who announce that they are done having kids, and that their husband has had/is scheduled for the big V.  I just don’t know how you get to this point, the point when you know you are done.

My own little cherubs are almost 5 and 2.  My body is destroyed from pregnancies, c-sections, scar tissue, stretch marks, years of breastfeeding, not getting enough sleep, being on the receiving end of accidental hair pulls, head butts, scratches and bites, and subsisting on luke warm coffee throughout the day.  I don’t feel the overwhelming obsession with all things infant that I felt when I wanted to get pg with each of them.

And yet-

I can’t say that I am done having kids and make that appointment for my man to have his vas snipped.  I find myself in this strange netherworld of not desiring more kids while also not wanting to eliminate the possiblity of more.

Ok, I think maybe I need to be honest here.  I would actually like to have one more baby. I think.  One last chance to see the double lines on a pregnancy test.  One last series of ob visits and ultrasounds.  One more thrill of seeing that thing move, and then the chance to tell my little dellabee that they are going to be big brother and sister to whomever is growing inside me.  I think  that maybe after having one more baby I could say “yes, I think I am done.”  And then I too would get my husband fixed and enjoy life working out per my plan.

But, what if I don’t feel that I am done then?  Will I need to continue having babies like that whack-job family in Arkansas that keeps spewing out the kids like a gumball machine dispenses candy?  What then?

How will I ever know?

Welcome to your new life

I am going to make t-shirts that say “I drove cross country with 2 kids, 2 dogs, 2 cats, and 2 guinea pigs – and they are all still alive!”  But then I guess I would be the only person who could wear them, since nobody else is dumb enough to tackle a menagerie-packed move like this one.  Guess I better make sure those t’s are XXL.

In the past 4 years we have moved 5 times.  But seriously, we used to be really really stable.  Before  I had my first kid my husband and I lived in the same place, the first house we owned, for 4 years.  Then the baby came, bringing with him some fantastic in-law drama and I longed to move back to the east coast.  By the time the baby turned 1, we were looking into relocating far, far away, or joining the witness protection program.  A job offer arrived for said husband, requiring a move to Virginia from Oregon.  I thought everything was all going to work out just beautifully.

The wrinkle in those plans was my father-in-law – who committed suicide within weeks of hearing the news that we would be moving away.

Anyways, after that my husband was unable to accept the job offer because, you know, that’s awful.  But in anticipation of taking the job, before grampa rained on our parade, we sold our house. We then moved into a rental house, then an apartment complex which was a total nightmare that I will save for another time, then we bought a townhouse at “the peak” of the housing bubble for way too much money.  And somewhere in there I got knocked up with child #2.

Then my husband lost his job.  He found a new one soon after, but in the process of networking became acquainted with the man who would eventually lure him away from his job and into the middle of nowhere for a new start.

All was not how it appeared and soon we realized that perhaps we had poor judgement.  Fast forward to now, and the decision to leave it all behind to start over in a new state on the other side of the country.  We did indeed drive cross country with a minivan, a u-haul towing an suv, a 2 and 4 year old, 2 dogs (one big, one small), 2 cats, and 2 guinea pigs.  OOOPS, forgot to mention the critters in the aquarium, the geriatric toads and newt that have belonged to my husband for over 10 years.  It was a full ride.

Now what? Not sure. Stick around to see. It should definitely be interesting.

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