The Morning After

Moving sucks. The packing. The lifting. The ensuing lower back pain. The stress. The arguing. 71% of all couples file for divorce the week after completing a move. Okay, I made that stat up, but it feels true. Actually, that number seems too low the more I think about it. But the worst part of moving is the morning after. Everything you own is packed up in boxes, and no matter how organized you are, you still can’t find anything. Even after writing the name of the room on the box and using color-coded tape, you realize that you should have just written “Miscellaneous” on every box.

There are always at least three boxes of your stuff that go missing and never return. The websites that have guidelines and tips on how to move never tell you about the gremlin who comes into your house at night and steals those boxes just to mess with you.

As usual, I was the first one awake in my household, so I did my best to maintain my morning ritual. I sat at the breakfast table stirring my coffee with a flathead screwdriver because I couldn’t find a spoon. And I enjoyed my breakfast of bread because God only knows which box contains the toaster. I read the morning paper on my computer, but I had to place my computer at the other end of the table because I have no idea where I packed my reading glasses.

I served Ella her morning milk in a beer mug because I couldn’t find the box with the cups. And then while submitting my application for the worst parent of the year, I sent my child to school without a jacket on a windy, 54-degree day. I had to make two additional trips to her school that day. One to deliver her backpack and another to deliver her jacket.

But good fortune was with me that day as I got dressed for my job interview. Oh yeah, I unexpectedly lost my job four days before we moved. I opened a box that I thought contained the trash bags, and sitting on top was a clean, crisply folded pair of navy blue dress socks. It’s been two days since we moved, and I’m still not sure where the rest of my socks are located, but I think God placed that pair of socks in the box for me so I wouldn’t have to show up to my interview in a navy blue suit with white athletic socks.

I still haven’t found the trash bags, so my garage looks like the opening scene of Wall-E, but as I write this, the worst is over. I have assembled enough of the kitchen to be able to feed my family without having to run to Chick-fil-A for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And I just decided to run to Wal-Mart and buy anything that I haven’t been able to find yet. Thank you for saving my marriage, Sam Walton.