So that's like, my primary operating state right now. I'm trying to write and work, keep kids fed and somewhat entertained, get all kinds of paperwork in order for schools and loans and god knows what else. And then the thoughts of I should pack I should pack I should pack creeps in.
So I do that thing where you grab a box and are like, I am going to pack up everything in this room right now!, only the first box is full before you've even cleared off a small shelf. So you get another box, and that fills up just as quickly and there's still no visible progress being made and everything that's not a book is awkward and pointy and doesn't fit in the box AAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIII.
(The full extent of my packing progress.)
(Yes, we are getting estimates for both moving and packing. I have no idea how we'll pay for packing but I'm not really sure it's optional at this point. How much plasma can a human donate in three and a half weeks?)
As soon as the home inspection was over* and the house OFFICIALLY did not need to be "show-ready," things immediately devolved back into chaos. LEGO EVERYWHERE. TOWERING LAUNDRY PILES. UNMADE BEDS AND RANDOM SHOES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR FOR YOU TO TRIP ON.
I drove Jason INSANE in the weeks leading up to our house going on the market. Like he would beg me to stop, stahhhhhp cleaning things, sit down, for the love of God just sit down for a minute, but I couldn't. I just physically couldn't. I took lap after lap around the house, cleaning up clutter I'd just decluttered up 10 minutes prior, moving more things into cabinets and closets, attacking microscopic wall smudges with a Magic Eraser and/or touch-up paint. I redid all the lighting concepts and polished the door handles. The house looked freaking GREAT.
(After it sold in like, 15 minutes, I OF COURSE smugly accepted Jason's acknowledgement that my OCD had indeed paid off. And when we toured potential houses where the owners hadn't even freaking vacuumed the sea of visible pet hair, or made the tiniest attempt at minor repairs/decluttering/staging, he got a little insulted on my behalf.)
Now he comes home and there's a giant pile of stuffed animals in the foyer and puzzle pieces everywhere else and breakfast dishes still on the counter and he opens his mouth to say something but then doesn't because he is a smart person who would like to live long enough to at least park our cars in the garage at the new house. He's pretty excited about the garage.
More about the new place later, I suppose, but now I must get back to my previously scheduled day of AAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIII.
*The house behaved for the inspection, more or less. A bathroom fan stopped working that very day, like it worked in the morning before I left but was apparently dead an hour later during the inspection. But the dishwasher didn't explode and the attic wasn't full of raccoons and nothing caught on fire. So thanks for that, house.