Yesterday it finally happened – I moved out of my home of seven years and into a rental.
This blog was supposed to be about all my favourite memories of the house – like celebrating the eldest’s beach themed birthday (as seen above) a few years back.
But I feel completely unsentimental right now so the gooey blog will have to wait.
Moving house was harrowing. Not because of the heartbreak. There was no time for that. It was too freaking frantic to think or mourn.
Kev my awesome removalist arrived at 7.30am with his two sidekicks and we all worked like dogs for the next nine hours. No lunch, no tea breaks, nothing.
Settlement on the house was supposed to happen at 2pm but there was no way on god’s earth that was possible when there were five truck trips to do. In the end I was just chucking stuff in my car … It’s all still there now I come to think of it …
My friend Fee ended up slaving with me for three or four hours, bless her. She even brought delicious, freshly baked date and apricot loaf … My only food for the day. I’d have been totally screwed without her dashing back and forth.
Another friend Alice got the kids from school. Suse left vodka, tulips and soda water on the front doorstep, then returned with limes later in the afternoon. Mel popped over for a hug after dinner.
Bless them all.
Fee is promising to return today to help with the boxes stacked floor-to-ceiling everywhere I look.
The dining table is still on the front verandah because it wouldn’t fit through the door. The outdoor setting wouldn’t fit down the side so it’s in the carport, with various other thing that wouldn’t fit – like the dryer – underneath it.
Kev kept hyperventilating throughout the day that all my stuff wasn’t going to fit, and I’m like, I don’t want to hear it Kev, just keep shoving it in, there’s nowhere else it can go. At one point I actually told him to shut up because he was giving me heart palpitations.
Husband called to say goodnight to the kids and asked to speak to me for a change. I SO didn’t want to talk to him, but in the name of not being petty I did.
He said he should have taken the day off to help me and YES HE SHOULD HAVE.
Far out. Yesterday was too much.
As I said to my friend Megan the night before the move: being strong is exhausting.
I did manage to squeeze in a quick cry between going to the bank to get the money for Kev and going to the bottle shop to grab him a case of Tooheys New to show my appreciation. Had to keep it brief though, there was no time for extended breakdowns. Or for gazing mournfully at my home before moving on.
Kev gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before he left. He told me to let him know if I needed any heavy stuff moved and he’d come back free of charge. Bless him too.
Now I just need to unpack 1000 freaking boxes. Hurrah. After only getting three hours sleep last night because I was so strung out.
i look a picture, let me tell you.
Song of the day: John Mellencamp “Pink houses”
housegoeshome 
Moving is such an exhausting kerfuffle and the thing is you can’t usually just ignore the chaos and collapse with tea or something stronger because the mess taunts you!
That said, the vodka and tulips sound a fabulous distraction.
BTW Alana, I just tagged you in an award. Don’t feel pressured to respond, just wanted to let you know. Compliments in any form are nice, I find 🙂
Lee-Ann thank you so much for including me. I will do a belated one once my internet is back up and running. Am doing very basic blogging this week
Sounds like you have lovely friends who helped you through a rough day 🙂
As for the Two-Timer, first he doesn’t help pack and then he doesn’t help move!
Your restraint is admirable. I’d have taken out a contract on him before now.
Wow, YES HE BLOODY SHOULD HAVE! Unbelievable. Blokes like Kev are gold though – as are your friends. x
Kev has already called to check on me and promise to take care of me next move
Moving always sucks. Always. No matter how much more prepared you believe you will be for the next time, it always is worse than you remember. A lot of the stress comes from the fact that you’re witnessing your life packed into boxes, into a finite space. When everything’s unpacked and out you don’t give it much thought. But confined like that it’s inherently depressing.
If I have to ever move again I’ll either be a) dead or b) saving for months beforehand to ensure I can afford those pack-everything/move/unpack-everything removalists. My guys do it, but it’s an arm and a leg. Probably well spent, I suspect.
Also, you probably really wouldn’t have wanted help from ex. It’d be more stress than it was worth. The best you can hope for on moving day is that you stay out of the way of the pros as much as possible, and that you can find the grog at the end of it.
A friend left vodka on my doorstep, complete with soda water and fresh limes, which fortunately made it very easy to find!