Proof of Packing

Last night my friends John and Paula watched me pack because Z is away for the weekend and I needed some moral support. I went through a box of old stuff (dumped most of it) and two shelves of books. (Most of our books Z and I want to pack or pitch together, but tonight I did my child/youth section, and saved two questionable items to ask him about later.) Unfortunately, since I don't have boxes yet (but will fetch some today... cast-offs from P's wedding gifts) my packing really consisted of stacking. But the hard part for me is really sitting on the floor, and casting off the ones I don't want, and I did that.










































For John the Baptist, hating changes is the hard part, though.

I've found myself really anxious and stressed out about this move, more than I thought I would be. Yesterday I said something about "this family" and how we move. It was a tense moment in a long string of tense moments, but Z laughed when I said that and we realized that maybe there are some other voices speaking in our conversation. I don't remember much of moving as a kid, but we did it a lot because my dad was in the Navy. (The last big move was when I was 9 and I remember that one.) I'm pretty curious about how my family talked about moving, and what my parents were anxious about at the time. I remember the concept of "cleaning for inspection" and that it was a big deal. I think at one point this meant my mother scraping spaghetti off the ceiling in Connecticut (someone had shown her that a perfect way to test your spaghetti is to throw it onto the ceiling... if it sticks, it's done.) and oatmeal off the water heater in California (a kid my mom cared for had been forced to eat his cold oatmeal breakfast leftovers for lunch and the kid had hidden it there when my mom's back was turned). I guess, when I'm feeling stressed out about emptying the basement, I can imagine scraping oatmeal off the heater.
Yeah, that might help.