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Sgt O’Neill: the day after he’s moved house; just as his wife tells him she’s going back to work tomorrow, leaving him in charge of their four young children, and unpacked boxes.
Moving hell
Moving house is one of the most stressful, exhausting, time-consuming, and totally un-fun activities, that consenting adults can indulge in.
FACT.
But in our case, it feels like a fetish we’ve become almost powerless to resist.
Last week we moved for the sixth time, into our seventh house, in three countries, spanning two continents. In five years.
The latest move was conducted with four children aged between three to eight years old, without a grandparent in sight, and with only the wonderful help of some really super new Canadian (and one Brit) chums to help us with the heavier items.
We actually had quite a few generous offers to palm off the kids during said move, but having done this so many times, we’re now a) sad experts, and b) it’s actually easier to just keep them around rather than have to drop off and collect them while trying to lug boxes around, and conduct errands.
Anyway, I’m now absolutely shattered and feeling REALLY bad-tempered and very unsociable (and a bit fat), and desperately trying to hang onto some thread of my sanity that is usually only salvaged after a jolly good run.
Except that I haven’t had time to run for a whole week – which is not good for my frazzled marbles.
Rob (husband), took off three days for the whole house move (generous or what?!), then went back to peaceful, ordered work, abandoning me to the company of our four demanding children, whining Donald (the family Jack Russell); sh*tloads of boxes, and a feeling akin to that of Sgt. O’Neill in Platoon, who looks on in abject desperation as Charlie Sheen is airlifted out of Vietnam….
Running on empty
Note to South Surrey residents. If you see a deranged woman (in a dark pink running top) – with loads of young children cheering her on from the bank as though she’s winning the Olympic 10K – just running round and around South Surrey Athletic Track, on any given morning; then it’s probably me.
It’s also worth mentioning that my husband and I have had some of our finest arguments in the last few days and there’s been an ungodly amount of swearing going on – enough to make a seasoned sailor blush.
And just to top off a very unpleasant week, I managed to embarrass myself in the bank on Friday, when a very nice lady came up to me and quietly whispered in my ear that the zip on the back of my skirt was undone.
Doesn’t sound too bad you might think. Except this particular skirt is prone to unzipping itself unless I secure a little button at the top (which I generally always do), and without it, anyone standing behind me must have got an eyeful of thonged bum cleavage. Classy.
But thankfully it’s not just me, and a few days later at the beach, Rob stood up to drop his shorts, only to reveal a not-very-flattering pair of boxer shorts as it dawned on him (and anyone else who might have seen him), that he’d forgotten to put his swimming trunks on underneath…
Humiliations aside, we’re now moved, fairly unpacked, and normality is beginning to return, and with it, the feeling of longing for the school holidays to end sooner than the 28 days, 14 hours and 39 minutes that have yet to pass.
Rob sent me a link the other day that pretty much summed up what (I assume) many stay-at-home parents probably feel – even if they don’t say it out loud, with this advert from a few years ago:
“It’s the most wonderful time of the year”