I am moving in a little less than six months. In some ways, that's a long time, but in others... not really.
I've moved a lot in the eight and a half years I've been married. I moved out of my parent's house and into a tiny apartment across town. Eight months later, we bought a house and moved. We stayed in that house for a little over two years before we decided to sell it and move to Texas (super long story, and this isn't the place for it). While that house was on the market, we lived with my sister-in-law (keeping a house realtor-ready with a one year old is a losing battle).
We finally moved to Texas, where we were in another tiny apartment waiting for the house in Scottsdale to sell. We were there for seven months before we decided to move back to Phoenix (another super long story, and this still isn't the place for it). In Phoenix, we lived in my parent's house while they were overseas. We were there for a year and a half before we moved across the country to Orlando for my husband to go to law school.
That's six homes in eight and a half years. And I'm getting ready to pack it all up again.
And in mentally preparing for this move, I've finally noticed a terrible pattern of behavior of mine. I find myself looking around and (basically) saying, "Forget it!"
Usually, I'm a fairly organized person. I have ginormous to-do lists: one for daily chores, one for weekly chores, one for monthly chores, one for a set of organizational chores that I do in a different room each week. With little kids, the house is never clean, but I do my best.
With a move on the horizon, I find myself mentally crossing things off the to-do list, because I figure it doesn't matter.
Fixing the wallpaper in the boys' room? Bah. I have to take it all down soon anyway.
Organizing my closet? Bah. It's all being separated into boxes shortly.
Scrub the carpets? Bah. I need to have them professionally steamed before we leave.
Touch up wall paint? Bah. It's gonna get dinged when we move furniture, I'll do it all when we are done.
You can see the danger in this line of thinking: My house will look like transient hoarders with a penchant for crayon-wall-art live here.
Is this extreme laziness? Or some new evolutionary stage of self-psyche-preservation?