I'm writing this at 12:15am, surrounded by boxes trying not to feel overwhelmed.
Ruth has decided that she will be incredibly cheerful, IF and only if, she is allowed to walk/climb on/destroy/investigate every inch of everything.
Georgia is 3 so, you know, she handles change really well. When she starts screaming in the store or decides all of the sudden that she only wants ME to button her shirt (and not her dad who has just finished buttoning her shirt), I just wave to the crowd and wait for them to congratulate me on my parenting skills.
Scott is still going through the small storage unit of "memorabilia" that he hasn't looked at in 10 years. I keep finding piles of crap I have avoided for 8 months and subsequently feel like a failure in life and PROMISE myself that THIS TIME I will get it together once and for all!
That's the upside to moving, right? No matter how stressful the actual packing up and moving out crap is, there's kind of this light of hope that in this shiny new place everyone will have a shiny new start. I won't forget to eat and Georgia will go to bed before 9:30. Ruthie will get a bath on a regular basis and not just when it's noticeable that she needs a bath. Our future selves are sitting in that little townhouse in that tiny, out of the way, middle of nowhere Utah city.