Our Move as told in the second person narrative

Moving house is a journey of a thousand miles (give or take a few) that starts with one step forward and then... two steps back. Deep, yes?

It starts with moving out. You say things like, "It has to get worse to get better, right?" to yourself as you survey the wreckage wondering why do we have so much stuff and how on earth are we going to fit it all into that truck, and no matter how much help you have and how ahead of the game you think you are, there is still going to be a mad scramble at the end to finish all the cleaning (gotta get that damage deposit!) and fit all the last bits and pieces into the car. 

Then, by some miracle, the move out is done and you are on the ferry sipping a coffee while your baby sleeps and your toddler plays, sailing across the Georgia Strait with all your worldly possessions in a U-haul on the lower deck.

You arrive on the mainland, and after a long, hot drive through Vancouver traffic with two crying children and a very near pants-wetting (I won't say whose), you pick up the keys and drive up to your new place. The U-haul vomits its contents into the suite (with a lot of help from your friends) and the dance begins. 

It's a slow dance, no, more like a shuffle or a do-si-do. One step forward, one step back. One step forward, one step back.

 It goes like this: You can't put the crib together until you find the screws, which happen to be in a box near the back of the third bedroom/guestroom/office/storage-for-now, but of course you don't find that bag of screws until after you've already put the crib together using the ones you managed to buy in just four trips to the hardware store. And of course every room in the house has its own similar process. Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining. Anyone who's moved house can testify that this is just how it is.

Normal life is suspended because tasks like cooking and laundry are out of the question until you've unpacked the box with your frying pan and bought shelves to put those clean towels on. You don't want to be at home because of the mess, but you feel bad going out when there's so much to do, so you just keep dancing. You open boxes, you collapse boxes, you stack boxes, you shuffle boxes from the bedroom, to the hallway, to the "storage". You make messes, you clean up messes, you make more messes, you move the mess to the "storage" until finally the dust starts to settle (Literally. There is a lot of dust) and little moments of order start to emerge out of the chaos. You start to do things you felt you might never do again- like hosting friends for store-bought peach pie or getting your toddler to bed on time.

And finally you're sitting in what is becoming your favorite spot in the house, munching granola and telling the story of your move as if it was just a memory. 

Just don't open the door to the guest room.