How To (Maybe) Handle The Stress Of Moving

This post is an update on our move, while simultaneously trying not to talk about the move. Stick with me.

I recently read somewhere that the average person moves 11.7 times in their life. That’s a US census thing.

Some thoughts:

1. What’s ‘average’?
2. What’s the .7?
3. I suck at numbers, but by my finger counting, this will be my 18th move, and I’m going to share some more moving statistics throughout this post.

I’m not being smug. I’m not above average, I don’t think. What I am, is kinda tired. But we go forward. Because what’s the alternative?

Some philosophy with your morning/afternoon/evening coffee. Or whatever time it is.

To add more atmosphere to this one, it’s happening during an actual storm. As my husband says Weather Is Happening.

Last night, he was cleaning out the shed in the dark.

I’m still writing in the kitchen, but my kitchen table is in a storage pod. Along with most of our furniture.

Actual items of furniture still in this house: 5.

I’m now using a creaky desk from when I was single. To complete the nostalgia trip, I should be blasting country music and wearing my silver jewellery again.

I found my jewellery box last week, while going through my bedroom cupboard.

The day before I’d found an old photo album, and my fridge magnet collection, and tucked between two of those, my Grandpa’s recipe for devilled eggs.

The day before that, I recycled four more bags of clothes and shoes.

The books that I’m taking to the new place fit in one box. So far. They’re still on the shelves. Because we still live here. My other books are in storage. I’m not very good at getting rid of books.

Our last date night was at Ikea after we picked up our new keys. Valentine’s Day is moving day. As my husband says Happy Arbitrary Date Day. Such is life.

Number of Studio Ghibli films watched: 3.

The run-up to this move will always be the time we introduced Isla to Studio Ghibli films, the time she made us cupcakes and set us up on an upturned box. The time I ate too much popcorn (never, though) and escaped to The Golden Girls (always, though)

Number of Golden Girls episodes watched: 43.

With every day that passes, I like my giant bed a bit more. Because of how my body works, I kinda sleep diagonally. And Neil, well, definitely does not. Our bed is going into storage, too. But not for a few more days.

Packing up to move has taught me that I’m a secret minimalist. I got rid of those four bags, and those two, and that one. And I’ve realized I don’t actually want the stuff back.

Number of bags of clutter I’ve decluttered: 7.

I don’t even miss the stuff that’s gone to storage. Except for my grandmother’s table, we used to put mail on when I was a kid, and more recently lived in the corner of this kitchen.

The thing is this. I love this house. I love my bed in the bedroom. And as cliche as it sounds, that kitchen wall over there is where we marked off Isla’s height.

And does anyone know how to steam a mural off the wall? And roll it up and take it with you? Because that’s the plan with Isla’s mural.

But the other thing is this. It’s OK to want more than a house. It’s OK to want the people in that house, any four walls, to be happy. It’s OK to want a change of scene. To want bookstores and coffee shops. And coffee shops inside bookstores.

It’s OK that the moving to the country experiment didn’t work. It’s OK to do something different if you’re unhappy.

I was talking to my mother, and I asked ‘why do people move so much?’ I was asking in general, and also maybe specifically about me.

‘People move like 20 times in their lives. You’re fine.’

That’s when I found out that the number of moves a person does is actually 11.7. That’s the American average, with the UK average much lower.

Number of articles I read to research that point: 6.

Back to this move, we’ve had a moving van to the storage, and our car to the new place. We spent a night with fresh paint fumes and easily accessible pizza delivery. One night only, because a house is not a home without the kid.

Number of times Isla has asked for dance classes: Infinite.

Tap again. Because that makes the most noise she says.

As for me, Number of times I’ve blasted 80s music to pack: Eleventy.

Mostly Footloose.

Why yes, perhaps that is ironic, Alanis.

I’m back on drinking coffee full-time. Whatever gets you through.

Number of times I’m actually sad about leaving: A bunch.

Went out to lunch with some friends (they do exist), and my tearing up was camouflaged by actual rain.

Perhaps it’s the build-up of other historic leavings in my soul, the interestingness of third-culture adulthood. We leave, we keep a weird collection of friends everywhere, we move forward.

Saying that, Number of times I’ve promised not to lose my shit: 4.

Number of times I’ve lost my shit: Check back later.

And still, by the end of the week, we’ll take down the photos from these four walls and go make more memories in a new, old place.

The photos, the family, and Grandpa’s recipe are coming with me in the car.

To catch up on our moving saga, read my posts on looking for a house, what I look for in an accessible house, and my moving tips for wheelchair users.

How do you get through the week of a move?

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