The moving plan

One of the first arguments that R and I ever had was over having a plan. He didn't think I had a plan, I disagreed. I had a plan, it was just a fluid plan and it would adapt to whatever came up. I feel compelled to point out that living this way had worked quite successfully for me up to this point. Over the years that we've been together, we've worked out an unspoken compromise. He's a little less structured, I'm a little more structured, and if it involves anything military at all, I adhere to his way of doing things. To his credit, he accepts my fluid planning the rest of the time. I probably got the better deal.


And then we decided to move. We've been kicking around the idea of moving off base fairly seriously for about a year. When we finally decided to look, I really didn't think we'd find anything I liked well enough to move for little over a year. But of course, I did. Our landlords knew someone on the street that worked for a moving company, so he and a coworker of his agreed to move our furniture on Saturday for around the same amount of money that it cost us to move before we had Sara. We apparently have more stuff (how does that HAPPEN?) and we moved several miles away versus right around the corner, so I feel like we got a really good deal.

So here was my fabulous plan - we can move in on Friday, but that was also the day the FMO folks were going to deliver our fridge, washer and dryer, etc., so I would use Friday to make sure all the furniture was ready to move on Saturday, and after the furniture was moved we'd move the the things we'd need immediately (bathroom stuff, dishes, clothes), then we would pack up whatever was left on Sunday. Monday we'd pick up the rental moving van (similar to a U-haul for Germany) and move the rest of our stuff out, and have the cleaning done by Monday night or Tuesday mid-day. R was off Monday and Tuesday, I'd use Wednesday to unpack and we'd clear our old place on Thursday morning. Great plan, right?

And here's where my plan completely fails. It took us (I say us, but I really mean R) all day Monday to pack up the rest of the apartment and get it down to the van we rented so that we would only have to make one trip. According to my fabulous plan, I started cleaning. We had the kids with us, who had the time of their lives running through the house, playing with toys that had been stuck in the back of their closet for ages, and perfecting their slide into home technique since the living room was now empty. Since the house was empty of all furniture, there was a nice echo, and the shrieking and yelling I'm sure made our soon-t0-be former neighbors even more grateful that we were leaving. I cleaned all day on Monday, R moved stuff all day Monday (and we did get 99% of it in one trip) but the more I cleaned, the dirtier the rest of the place looked. Not a good sign. I didn't think the place was that dirty when I started out. Man, was I wrong. So we clean all day Tuesday, slowed down by trying to keep the kids from taking the vinegar squirt bottles we made to remove the hard water deposits and having a water gun fight. By water gun fight, I really mean spraying each other full strength in the face (not so good with vinegar). R breaks out the comet to help clean the tub, and when he was running down some trash and I was half in the fridge trying to remove little broccoli grit (how in the heck does that stuff get everywhere and then multiply?!?!?) from, well, everywhere, I hear S giggling in that specific tone that suggests she's up to no good. So I get up and look for her and she's grabbed the Comet and has shaken it out in an impressive trail from the hall bathroom all the way down the hall and into the living room. As I catch her eye, and I'm sure I had a horrified look on my face, she laughs and starts to put the Comet can up to her mouth. Right at this time, R walks back in the door, and we both have this slo-mo moment where we are roaring, "noooooooooooooo", which makes her drop the Comet, leaving her clothes and shoes covered in the stuff. And we scare her because we are both lunging at her - we are so big and she's so little that I'm sure it was like Jack being double-teamed by two giants over that whole beanstalk thing. So she starts to cry --check that--wail as we get to her and grab the Comet. We strip her down, examine her closely for any signs of a Comet snack or that the Comet is on her body, change her clothes, clean her shoes, and I try to keep the kids out of the the Comet trail. Interestingly enough, that stuff seems to multiply as you try to clean it up as well. I realize that shutting the kids in our bedroom with the Swiffer wet and the Swiffer WetJet is a great way to keep them occupied and sort of actually get some of the floor clean - if you count puddles of wet jet liquid among huge dry patches cleaning the floor. All goes well until R needs the WetJet to finish the Comet clean up. And then the wailing begins anew. We are nothing if not consistent.

So it took me cleaning all day Monday, R and I cleaning all day on Tuesday, and more cleaning by me after work on Wednesday to get the place done. Now, if I do say so myself, that place was 10 shades cleaner than when we moved in. The kids were so happy to leave there for the last time. We were leaving either Monday or Tuesday night and our yucky neighbor below us was out on her balcony. T sees her and says hi, she ignores him, so he starts yelling, "Hellooooooo. Heeelllooooooooooooooooo. HEEELLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" until she finally speaks to him. Heh. Then he announces, "We going home. This not our home". She, of course, is like "oh" because she could care less. And I of course, am trying not to sneer or make snide comments. Good to see that with or without a plan, I'm still the same old me. Now, that's the plan.