I have moved dozens of times in the last two decades and somehow, this one is the worst.
That’s because I’m packing my half while living with my soon-to-be ex-husband, Joseph. Everything I pick up needs me to assess if it’s mine to take or if my smaller house even has the room for it.
Joseph thinks I’m rushing too fast. While the movers are scheduled to come in three days, he figures I can have them take big furniture and later I’ll leisurely move things from one house to the next.
Fuck that.
I tell him that it’s because I’m paying for movers and they have a minimum time requirement so I might as well give them as much work as possible (never once coordinating a household move, he has no clue about mover minimums).
In reality, it’s because I want to get the fuck on with my life. Plain and simple. I’m done. The quicker I get my stuff out of this house, the quicker my new life starts. I’m a rip-the-bandaid-off kind of gal, I want to get everything over with as soon as possible to deal with the aftermath head-on.
It’s a lot to juggle when your kids are splitting their stuff between homes. They wear uniforms to school and since we’re not immediately starting the new custody schedule, that’ll take some juggling. There are little details, like ordering a second charger for my son’s laptop for him to have available to charge for school every day. My kids need costumes for school projects, I can’t pack my sewing machine until I’ve tackled them. They both have big book reports due in 2 weeks, not an ideal time to work on major projects when you’re confused, scared children who are riddled with anxiety over their parents’ divorce.
I’m also trying to squeeze in vendors as much as I can with time and budget. What I can’t afford, I do myself. I haven’t painted a room in over 15 years. It’s a five-day effort to redo my daughter’s little closet; I miss the days when I could throw money at problems. My anxiety shoots through the roof as I panic that I’ll drop the paint tray on the floor.
There are garage floor epoxy workers, furniture builders (I can’t build loft beds on my own), re-keying the doors, getting internet set up, getting my bed and mattress delivered from two different vendors, and trying to book the bigger home improvement projects.
I shuffle between spending my days at the new house doing prep work and the old house so that I can pack. Somewhere in the mix, I get a bit of real work for my actual job done as well as pick up the kids from school and get them dinner.
I know Joseph won’t get on board with packing the kids’ toys before I move. He’ll drag it out. That’s fine by me; my SUV is big enough to haul Barbie Dream Houses and boxes of Playmobil but like everything else, I want to get it over with.
My priority list consists only of things that are mandatory before the move.
Getting my daughter’s closet finished before I move so that her clothes are ready to go? Mandatory. Getting new rugs for the floors? Not mandatory.
Buying specialized boxes to move artwork? Mandatory. Packing my jewelry up to take with me? Not mandatory. I can grab that later.
I should be grateful that after a year and a half of divorce drama, Joseph and I are at a good enough place that I’m not being thrown out onto the streets. He’s finally making the new dynamic work (for now) because it’s in the best interest of the kids. I’ll have the key to his house for a long time and he’ll get the keys to mine.
Meanwhile, Joseph is still in denial. He panicked this evening when I reminded him that I’m taking the fridge in 3 days. There is an appliance shortage (thanks Covid) so he should have purchased it weeks ago. Or at least, one week ago. He bombards my phone with links to refrigerators to vet the purchase. I limit my feedback because he needs to learn how to be an adult on his own. Also, there’s only a handful of fridges left in California. Just fucking buy anything at this point.
I can’t wait to be done being his mother. My sanity is begging for reprieve.
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This move is aging me and destroying my sleep cycle. My hands are chapped and covered in paint that won’t wash off. My hair is in desperate need of a haircut (today it got caught in packing tape). My brain runs a mile a minute with endless To-Do list items.
I’m no poster child for self-care at the moment. There’s no “me time”. But then, it dawned on me how quickly this year is flying by. I’m 60 days away from the anticipated divorce date to finalize.
Then I came up with my brilliant idea: celebrate my annual divorce anniversary.
Decades ago, I remember the Right-Hand Ring fad. It was the diamond industry’s attempt at making more dough. The gist is that women shouldn’t have to wait for a man to propose to get a diamond; you like some sparkly bling, buy yourself some sparkly bling.
In other words, treat yo’self. Self-care at its finest.
I’ve decided every year on my divorce anniversary I’m going to give myself a divorce gift. It can be physical or an event. I was going to set a dollar limit and decided against it. It’s whatever I feel is best for a given year but skipping the gift altogether is not an option.
For my inaugural divorce anniversary, I want to buy a teacup. Before you, Dear Reader, think I’m nuts please hear me out.
When putting items on our wedding registry almost twenty years ago, we never put fine china. That’s not our thing and it wasn’t practical compared to the other things we wanted. It seemed like a waste of money to get plates and bowls that aren’t used every day.
But when walking along with the registry gun, I spotted a fancy schmancy Lenox dishware set. I sure as fuck wasn’t going to ask wedding guests to gift $150 on a five-piece place setting (per person). But it was stunning. And every time I went to the store, I was drawn to it like a zombie to fresh meat.
I’m not getting the full dishware set. My dinners are spent with me shoveling food down my throat while I lean over the sink to catch crumbs.
But I want a teacup. I’m a tea snob and I want to be a classy bitch.
There is some irony in getting the china pattern after a divorce that you coveted when creating your wedding registry. But after everything I’ve juggled since closing on my new house, a bit of self-care is allowed.
…
I’m not overcomplicating my new divorce tradition. The only requirement is that it has to make me happy. If I’m super broke, maybe that means using a vacation day to go to the beach. If I’m flush with cash, maybe that means buying myself an iPad.
It’s an annual reminder that I made a life-changing decision to end my misery and forge a path of happiness.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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