Moving with kids

So, I’ve moved a couple of times. But this… this is the first time I’ve ever moved with kids. And I’m here to tell you people… it’s a wild ride if there ever was one. 

Children do not want to move. Like dogs, they have marked their territory in the place that they know as home by peeing in it, licking it, and shedding their fur skin scent all over it. The last thing they want to do is be uprooted from the place they’ve come to know as their own. So, moving has had the boys like, “exccccuuuuuse me?!?!??”  

The first morning in the new joint was full of plenty of shenanigans. The littlest pretty much felt like he could and should shove anything he could find into his mouth. And if that didn’t work, he’d just pour it all on the floor. And truth be told, he completely got away with it because well, moving. I always thought Legos were the tried and true feet killers but let me tell you, hell hath no fury like a thousand tiny bits and pieces of Rice Krispies on wood floors. I found myself removing Snap, Crackle, and Pop from the bottom of my feet for over 48 hours. And well, I don’t think they made it through the battle. 

That one up there {the one that is earning is name Harr Bear quite well these days} also decided that emptying every single cupboard I set up that he could reach seemed like an excellent plan. And that pouring any of the cereal he could find allllllll over would be absolutely amazeballs. 

And every so often, he would pop a squat to sneak a bite. Because he was clearly famished after not eating every four minutes. 

Currently, our kitchen and dining room tables are at the other house {and I told the Oldest very explicitly that he could not go around school telling everyone we have two houses because we’re not as fancy as that makes us sound.} so we have this makeshift table situation going on on the floor. Why don’t we have it set up? Because our chairs are all at the other house. Luckily we have a counter to sit at for meals for now. And luckily, the Playdough and Bubber seem to pick up the remainder of the rice krispies. That’s what we in the mother hood call a win/win.

Anything that can be gotten into… has been. And left exactly where it’s been emptied for mama to find and clean up after.

And anything that could be ripped to shreds, has been {“Look mom, we made it snow in the basement!”… special… But hey, they were creating soooo I’ll take it.}.

And it basically looks like we’ve just thrown a frat party 24/7. It’s really incredible. And makes me wonder why I ever liked frat parties. 

We closed a week ago. I can’t find my bras {luckily, my job doesn’t necessitate that the girls be in full form ever day so sports bras will suffice.}. I don’t have a dresser in the same house where my clothes are. And I am pretty certain anyone who peeks in our windows thinks we’re squatters. My children were, for the first several days, giving us fits {and no, I can’t really blame them}. And I, too, found myself in a bit of a funk, and gave the hubs a bit of a fit. It’s definitely not all roses. And not all picture perfect. 

So, we’re still adjusting. We’re still moving on. With kids. But it’s getting more normal fairly quickly, I suppose. And while it’s a crazy adventure, I honestly wouldn’t change it, or our nutty crew, for anything. Ever.