The movers arrived this morning, bright and early, to box up all our stuff. Sounds great, right?
Except when you have a child who screams, "NOOOO" dramatically when things get moved. Or when your dogs do not stop barking all day long, thus ensuring that your child does not nap properly and you get a massive headache. Or when the movers leave in the evening, and you realize that not only are you going to be living in box city for the next five days, but that your much-needed booze is packed up.
I'm also more than slightly freaking out over the fact that as of Wednesday night, we don't have a place to live. There are a grand total of four houses to rent in our new town, three of which can be nixed based on size, price, or location, and who knows if the fourth is actually something we want to rent AND will let us have a short-term lease. Jim has been working frantically on trying to get us a place, but of course since it's a holiday weekend, nothing much is happening.
If it was just the two of us, I don't think I would be bothered so much. However, all I can think right now is, "I'm a terrible mom. My child is going to be homeless. I'm ripping her apart from the life she has known, and she won't have a birthday cake because there is no kitchen to make it in, and her holiday season is going to be crap because 1.) I don't live in a Pottery Barn catalogue, 2.) all of our stuff is going to be in storage, and 3.) did I mention we will be homeless?! " (Yes, I know. It's overly dramatic. We won't really be homeless, things will work out in the end, blah blah blah, unless those words of wisdom come with an extra large glass of wine and an entire cake, keep them to yourself.)
To top off this shit-tastic day, my mom calls me and tells me that my dad tripped and broke a rib.
I'm going to go load up on Thanksgiving leftovers and call it a night.