We have packed most of our belongings into cardboard boxes, and dumped them into the garage. Our furniture is divided between the garage and the living room. Right now, as I am typing this, we have a guy downstairs who is “sanding sandlessly” our hard wood flooring in the kitchen/family room. (Who was the genius who decided to put hardwood in front of the fridge and where the kitchen table is?! The people who owned the house before us, not us!)
We are preparing the house for the move to Boston. We are re-doing everything so that the house will sell quickly.
While we were rolling up one of the carpets last night, we looked out the windows to see our neighbors our for their evening stroll. I was envious. Free time. Their fireplace mantle is filled with family pictures: their wedding, the kids in various stages of braces. Our pics are packed away somewhere in the garage. Our mantle is a holding area for hammers, scotch tape, scissors, and twine.
We had to move the fridge off the floor today…so first I had to take down the important info there: prescriptions, checks for upcoming bills, telephone numbers, my magnet collection. They are all in another box….somewhere.
I know this is all temporary. Whenever I catch myself feeling sorry for myself, I think of those who truly live like refugees: in the Sudan, in Syria. They for the most part, have nothing but the clothes on their backs. They don’t know where there next meal is coming from. We don’t either, but in a different sense–we can grab takeout or a pizza. I have no right to feel sorry for myself.
Soon the day will come when we are in our new place, and I will be opening boxes like on Christmas morning to see what I got!
This is all temporary.