Not Stressed. I am NOT STRESSED.

I haven't disappeared from this blog; I've just been moving. I'm now typing this from Minnesota instead of Iowa. We're at my parents' house. Most of our belongings are in storage in Mark's parents' basement. The rest of our stuff, that we thought we'd need in the next couple of months, is in boxes and totes here at my parents' house.

Nothing is organized now. We have piles of papers. (I hate piles of papers. I want them in files.) But overall, things have gone well. We are here.

In the two weeks leading up to our move I was really not stressed. I was not worried about the upheaval or the transition. Even as we packed boxes and approached the time when we would have no income I did not feel stressed. And I was so very proud of myself.

Mark's parents came down to drive the moving truck on Saturday, and we weren't going to follow until Wednesday. This meant that we were camping out in our house for about four days. That was okay. All the cleaning was okay. No hiccups in our plans.

We've had a couple of hiccups today, though, and I'm beginning to feel a little stressed.

Well, okay, I'm pretty stressed. I feel a little bit like my life is over. It started this morning when the inside panel fell off of the door of our car, the same car that was hit by a tree branch two weeks ago. Mark knew what to do to get it back on and I helped him duck tape it on. That was alright. No big deal.

Then when we stopped at Mark's parents' house on the way to my parents' (because my bin with essentials like underwear had accidentally ended up on the moving truck), we found out that a can of gasoline that we had packed in a box (yes, we know now what a bad idea that was) had gotten turned on its side and leaked a puddle all over my in-laws basement and our couch. Oh dear.

I handled that alright, though, after apologizing profusely to Mark's parents.

Then when we arrived at my parents' house, I realized that my sourdough starter had gotten sealed in it's container, thus cutting off its supply of oxygen. When I questioned Mark about it, he said he'd sealed it last night. The starter smells funny and there isn't a hint of a bubble. I think it's dead.

That was the final straw. I cried. Tears dripped down my face as I unpacked the rest of our refrigerator items and nestled them into my parents' fridge. It wasn't Mark's fault. This is just one of those communication lapses that seem to happen during times of great busyness. But still. My baby.

After we were all done unpacking, I opened the mail that had begun to accumulate at my parents' house for us. I was expecting to see the letter in response to the health insurance I'd applied for, since Mark's and my health insurance through our Iowa jobs will end on April 30. I was not expecting, however, to have our application denied.

More correctly, my application was denied, because of my 'pre-existing condition' of polycystic ovary syndrome. I was not expecting this little wrench in things, and that was the final final straw that left me feeling like my life is pretty much over.

I know it's not. I know there are things we can do and that we will probably be able to find health insurance before May 1, even if it's through a COBRA plan from our previous employers. We'll be making phone calls tomorrow.

But tonight, I don't have much of a sense of perspective. I'm just tired and stressed.

It wouldn't be a major life change for me if I didn't expend some good solid stress over it, right?

Organized Packing: Ignorance is Bliss

I started packing yesterday. I’ve been dreading those first boxes for a while now, knowing that as soon as I opened the first one and began filling it with the bits and pieces of our lives that have collected in the corners of this little rental house over the past two and a half years, chaos would become the permanent guest until someday in the far future. ‘Chaos’ and ‘far future’ may not be quite right, but that’s a little what it feels like. ‘Unrest’ might be better and ‘near future’ is hopefully more accurate.

I will not start earning a paycheck in my new job until I start teaching this fall. And because Mark does not yet have a job lined up in Minnesota, we don’t really know how soon we’ll have a source of income once we sever ties with our current jobs. Two and a half years ago, when we were in a similar situation, the stress nearly sent me through the roof. Mark nearly sent me off to the loony bin. (Or if he didn’t consider that option, he probably should have.) I am pleased and pleasantly surprised that this time around, though I am mildly concerned about our source of income for the next few months, an overwhelming sense that God will provide pervades my heart and mind.

We’ll see how I feel in a month when income really does stop. I may be eating my words.

Mark’s sister and brother-in-law and their two adorable kiddos are coming to visit us this weekend. They graciously offered to bring a trailer down to cart a load of stuff back up to Mark’s parents’ house, where the majority of our stuff will be stored for the time being. I’m so thankful for Mark’s parents, who are allowing us to take over their basement with our accumulation of earthly junk. And I’m so thankful for my parents, who are allowing us to take over their basement with our…selves.

But…. (I heave a huge sigh here.) I’m not super excited about being homeless and out of control of my stuff and home for some undefined period of time. For one thing, I will not be excited about the excessive amounts of hamburger meat that I’ll find at my parents’ house and I’m sure they won’t be excited about sugarless baked oatmeal for breakfast. For another thing, it’s simply disorienting and confusing to not have a home for a lengthy period of time. Mark and I managed to do it once before: we packed up all our earthly possessions except for the few we’d need and put everything into storage for three months. (Mark’s parents were gracious enough to give their basement over to our stuff then too, I might add.)

Even as organized as I thought I was last time we had to pack up, we still managed to permanently displace half of our hand towels and washcloths (which, since we only had four sets, left us critically short of towels to offer guests). And I still shudder to remember needing that one item and trying to rummage through the mounds of boxes in search. And all that despite my numbered and color-coded system.

Ugh.

So, this time, I’m prepared. We are not only going to be numbered and color-coded again, but I’ve made a spreadsheet. A colored, numbered spreadsheet. Disorder and chaos will quake in their boots when they see this spreadsheet.

Control is a funny, tantalizing thing. All this ‘organizing’ of our packing and this spreadsheet might just be a way for me to feel like I’m in control in this stage of upheaval in our lives.

But I’m not going to analyze it too far. Organizing and color-coding my boxes makes me feel like I’m in control. Ignorance is bliss!