moving.....

Fold, tape, wrap, nestle, fold, tape, label, repeat. Slice, unfold, unwrap, find the right spot, repeat.

Almond oil for cuticles dried out by packing paper and boxes. Epsom salts for sore muscles and feet. Wine to chill me out so I don't go totally OCD on my family.

Preset postcard in the computer to use for the once a year moving. (don't buy too many stamps since they keep changing price.)

Good Friends over to break in the new house by breaking bread together.

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We are moved in. The other house is having the last load moved as I type. Now for unpacking these boxes and making it all fit into yet another house. Lance looks at it and wonders that we even got it into this house, let alone can make it organized and functional. Trust me baby, it will all fit. Well... except the bench kitchen table set maybe.

What I love the most here is that the computer bay (yes Jason, I have geeked out totally when I have a computer BAY with 4 computers at it.) sits with a window only about 3 feet above ground and I can look out at the chipmunks in the sunshine and the trees gently swaying in the breeze.

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Moving is traumatic no matter how many times you do it. You may get better at the logistics, but the mental gymnastics of figuring out which cupboard to put your plates in and which drawer for silverware can be exhausting.

It can be exhilarating too. I love the smell of fresh paint, of hanging a painting and thinking, "this is the perfect spot for this one."

I dislike that my fingernails will break at a wrong breath for the next 6-8 weeks as they recover from the trauma of moving. I really absolutely hate that I have said (now at least 11 times) that I need a picture taken of the back of the tv/theater system to make it easier to reconnect all these wires right without spending half a day and a dozen curse words to do it.

I love falling into my bed, made up totally in my new room with all my stuff in place. That night is a good night and I sleep like the dead when I am moving and nesting.

It stinks to try to figure out how to give the best directions to the new place- or trying to remember which accounts I have switched over or not.

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No matter what I do, I have begun to accept the fact that God has chosen for me to be a nomad. I do not like to move anymore. In fact I rather hate it the more I do it- no matter how good I may be at it. The older I get, the more I move, the less I like it. But it is what I do. It is who I am. Maybe I will start off conversations with new friends by warning them not to put me in their address book in ink......