And I don't want help. I mean, I want it, but I don't. I need the kids here even if they are un-doing all my doing. My anxiety threat level is green and low when they are with me and in times like these, we need to keep it that way. It's my house and my things and my mess and I know where stuff goes.
I'm a drawer-emptier. First I'm a filler- with anything and everything and then when it won't close anymore I dump the whole thing into a box or a bag and then put it in the basement for, I don't know when? Times like now? Where I'm forced to sort through old magazines and expired coupons and report cards mixed with really important documents and photos and the MAC Twig lipstick (and lip liner) I wore when we got married. I'm pretty sure if you could open up my head you'd see the same thing.
So I've been sifting and boxing and throwing away. In the mornings I check the houses for sale online, make the kids breakfast, do a Goodwill drop off or Freecycle post, bag up and box more stuff. I'll take a break to eat lunch while I watch Netflix (no Olympics here without TV unless we watch at Mommal's) - I just started watching Parks & Recreation. Then back to the boxes, then dinner, dishes, boxes/snuggling time/boxes, and then when I just about can't keep my eyes open any longer I'll lie in bed to read- getting through The Age of Miracles: A Novel right now (I just finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird and wish it never ended) -and it's never as long as I'd like and I always hope to sneak in more pages the following day but find the cycle very much the same. But I know I'm getting closer- each box is one more step to our new house, wherever it may be, I can just see it waiting for us, though, and in my mind it is kind and patient.