I just sat down from packing. I should say, “collapsed in a splatter of exhaustion.”
I feel like I have been packing since Spring arrived, like I’m some sort of confused squirrel. Last night Gordon told me I should “take a break tonight” as if such a luxury was an option to me. Lucky for him, he works at a job all day to bring home actual money to pay for the moving company, but this means I am the one doing all of the packing of the boxes for the burly firefighting moving company men to move. Which is fine by me. Just don’t suggest I take a break, as if you know exactly how much work is involved and have deemed it appropriate. Because you DON’T.
I really don’t mean to rake Gordon over the coals. He and I packed for an inordinate amount of time the other night, and he had the unsavory job of the Guest Room Closet. That’s the Closet where random objects go to die and/or get mixed up with other random objects that have organized themselves into a Random Object Mafia which traffics in weaponized uranium and dumps the bodies of their enemies into the East Fork of the Trinity. (Hm. Must be watching too much 24.) Luckily, Gordon emerged unscathed. But I think his back has been branded with some sort of meaningful mark and I have to start calling him Vlad.
And in the midst of all of this upheaval, amongst the boxes, foam, and a few high-end Container Store rip-off packing objets d’arte, we decided it might be a good idea to move Drew from his crib to a Big Boy Bed. It occurred to me we should do it as I was talking to my mother last week. My original logic was: why bring in another piece of furniture that we will then have to pay burly firefighting moving company men to move? But Mom asked, “Are you SURE you don’t want the toddler bed?” And then I knew. I needed to stagger the upheaval for Drew as much as possible.
Monday night was show time. And it was really not very dramatic. Not really worth writing a paragraph about really. He jumped into it saying “Big boy bed!” because I had really been talking it up, and went right to sleep. It was almost too easy. He woke up at about 2 a.m. wimpering “Big boy bed…big boy bed,” but after I rubbed his back for 30 seconds, he was sound asleep. The next night at around the same time, I heard him laughing hysterically. This creeped me out so much I did not attempt to make any sort of contact with him at all, and he was sound asleep within minutes.
Something tells me Drew will do just fine with the move. And with the little sister, for that matter. BUT I MIGHT JUST COLLAPSE. I am so tired. I am six months pregnant. I am working part-time. I am singing Gershwin for 1,500 people on the night we move with rehearsals three nights this week. And the most frustrating thing is: I have absolutely no right to complain. Shut up right now, Julie. RIGHT NOW. YOU ARE SUCH A BRAT. You could be tired from walking across your country as a refugee; or tired as a sex slave in Cambodia; or even just tired as a single mom with no local support structure. But you’re tired because you’re about to move into a beautiful house and because you are carrying a beautiful baby girl and because you have had to chase a beautiful baby boy around all day. Savor the sensation. The pain is good. Feel the burn.
So, fair reader, what are YOU whining about right now that you have no right to be whining about this morning? I’m interested to know.
But after I finish this tedious, no-fun, cuticle-ruining packing.