Why I Watch "Toddlers and Tiaras"

With the updates to the house almost complete, Peanut due to arrive any nanosecond, and temperatures reaching the high 80s (we don’t have central AC, but I’m sure you guessed that), tensions have been running high in the C household.  Apparently, my husband and I aren’t the only ones coping with copious amounts of stress.  A few days ago, Minnow asked me to get her coloring books and crayons so she could color at the kitchen table.  I obliged, and as she sat coloring I scrubbed some dishes in the sink.  A few minutes later I turned around to find her methodically peeling the wrappers off each crayon. 

“Minnow, why are you doing that?” I inquired.

“Because it helps me feel better.”

Interesting.  When I’m stressed I usually make a list or go for a long run, but, you know, different strokes for different folks.

I mean, can you blame the kid for feeling a little frazzled lately?  According to Baby Center, toddler stress is real, and can be brought on by the following:

“…having too many planned activities, the lack of a stable routine, feeling sick, a move, a separation from a beloved caregiver, or the arrival of a new sibling.”

In the last three months Minnow has been through two moves; has gone from living with her beloved grandparents and favorite dog, Harry, to spending the majority of her days with just me; and is anticipating a new baby to disrupt the only-child lifestyle she has enjoyed since birth.

Rationally, I understand what’s going on but, emotionally, my stressed-out toddler is making me feel like I am failing miserably at motherhood. Her usually cheerful and cooperative personality has been replaced by someone who, in her own words, “[Doesn’t] want to do ANYTHING!.”  Our mornings usually start out well, but unravel after she has finished her breakfast.  For example, on Tuesday I wanted to bathe Minnow before her swimming lesson at noon.  First she screamed because she didn’t want to get into the tub.  Then she screamed because she didn’t want to get out of the tub.  She refused to use the potty, then she refused to put on her swim diaper.  She fought me with feet and fists as I struggled to get her into her car seat, and sobbed during the five-minute drive to the pool, “But I don’t want to go to swim lessons!  I don’t want to do ANYTHING!”

Then when she got to the pool, she said, “Mommy, can me pick out my own goggles?  I want the pink ones!”

Every day has been like this since we moved into the new house.  It’s like living with someone who suffers from unmedicated bi-polar disorder, which I guess most toddlers do, in a way.  My days are spent dreaming up ways to keep Minnow happy, and those ways usually include too many Annie’s Cheddar Bunnies and too much time spent watching “Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood" on the iPad.  At times like these, when I’m feeling like just about the most unqualified mother in America, only one thing will lift my spirits:

“Toddlers and Tiaras.”

Confession: There are few things I enjoy more after putting Minnow to bed than kicking back on the couch with a bowl of Edy's Slow Churned ice cream (or a Shake Shack shake, if my husband is so inclined) and watching two or three episodes of this TLC gem.  The mothers of “Toddlers and Tiaras” help me realize that even on our most out-of–sorts days, I could be making far more questionable decisions as a parent.  After all, I can honestly say that I have never:

- Spray-tanned my toddler;

- Fed my toddler Pixie Sticks, Red Bull, or something called “Tinker Tea,” which is, evidently, a concoction comprised of Pixie Sticks, lemonade, and soda (soda!);

- Called another person’s toddler “ugly;”

- Suggested to my toddler that “stripper” is an acceptable career choice, as long as she does it “fabulously;”

- Criticized my toddler for not having (or doing- I don’t know what the correct terminology is here) “pretty feet;”

- Allowed my toddler to ride in an ATV, with or without a helmet;

- Put false eyelashes on my toddler’s eyes, false teeth in my toddler’s mouth, or makeup on my toddler’s face (Although I have, on occasion, painted her toenails the same Essie color as my pedicure, so we could match);

- Told my toddler, in either a positive or negative way, that she looks like a “prosti-tot;”

- Allowed my toddler’s lunch to be spoonfuls of mayonnaise (mayonnaise!) straight out of the jar;

- Threatened to “kick the shit” out of another parent in front of my toddler (or ever!);

I don’t mean to criticize other people’s parenting styles (cough, cough); after all, being a parent is, by far, the most challenging thing I’ve ever done, and I went to law school.  I don't doubt that the parents on "Toddlers and Tiaras" genuinely love their children, even if they have a funny way of showing it.  I’m just saying that the next time Minnow wants to lament her misfortune because I insist on washing her hair or giving her something other than carbs for a snack, she might do well to think about little Mackenzie or Brooklyn, who certainly have more stress in their lives than she does.

Closing Time

I knew I would marry my husband the moment I met him on a dance floor in South Padre Island, Texas.  It was an inconvenient realization; I was a senior in college, on spring break with my girlfriends, and in a satisfactory relationship with a good guy at home.  But when this stranger in pink began singing “Summer Nights” to me as if he were John Travolta himself, our future nuptials were a foregone conclusion. 

“I like you!  Where do you go to school?” I shouted over the cast of Grease’s urging to “Tell me more, tell me more…”

“I go to school with you,” he replied.

“Tell me everything you know about C.B.C.,” I demanded of a friend the following morning as we sat dangling our sun-ripened legs in the hotel pool. 

“I think he’s from Long Island,” she began.

“Long Island?” I repeated, crinkling my nose. 

At the time my knowledge of Long Island consisted of the following: The Great Gatsby, Joey Buttafouco, Long Island iced teas. 

“Well, is he staying in Philly after graduation?”

“No.  I think he accepted a job in New York.”

This was getting more complicated.  As a native Philadelphian already enrolled at a Philadelphia law school for the fall, I had aspirations of eventually becoming the District Attorney and owning a big, historic home on the Main Line.  For this inevitable marriage to work, I would have to persuade C.B.C. to return to Pennsylvania someday.

For the three years that I attended law school, C.B.C. and I carried on a long-distance relationship.  Every two weeks, either I would board a train to visit his dingy first apartment above a Turkish restaurant in Midtown Manhattan, or he would commute to the Main Line, where I shared a spacious, neutral-smelling two-bedroom apartment with a good friend from college. 

On the weekends we spent in Pennsylvania, we’d follow the same routine every Sunday: 10 a.m. mass at St. Matthias and brunch at Hymie’s followed by a winding walk through the neighborhoods of Merion, Narberth, and Bala Cynwyd.  As we walked, we’d admire and discuss the many magnificent homes lining the sidewalks: Stone farmhouses, exquisite Tudors, and- my personal favorites- brick colonials. 

“I can’t even imagine how much money it takes to own one of theses homes,” I’d say.

“We’ll do it someday,” he’d reply.

“Own a home in Pennsylvania?” I’d ask, hopefully.

“No. But someday we’ll own a home.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe Long Island.”

I’d crinkle my nose.  The breadth of my knowledge of Long Island had expanded since dating C.B.C.; I now knew that it was also heavily congested. 

“But Long Island isn’t home,” I’d protest.  “Long Island doesn’t have good soft pretzels, and Tasty Kakes, and Wawa.”

“Everything you love about Philadelphia has to do with food,” my husband would observe.

“No.  I also like how everyone on the Main Line puts electric candles in their windows year-round.”

Putting white candles in the window is an old Pennsylvania-Dutch custom.  As far as I had seen, it was not observed on Long Island.

“We’ll put candles in our windows,” C.B.C. would assure me.

The worst part about Sundays was driving C.B.C. to Suburban Station so he could catch a train back to New York.  I’d cry as I took I-76 back to my apartment.  One night, while I was struggling to get through some case law reading, C.B.C. sent me the lyrics to the Coldplay song, “Swallowed in the Sea.”

The streets you’re walking on,

A thousand houses long,

Well that’s where I belong,

And you belong with me. 

“This song reminds me of you,” he said.  “I promise you some day we will live in the same state, the same city, the same house.”

A year after I graduated from law school, C.B.C. and I married, as I’d predicted, and moved to New York City.  I was surprised by how quickly I adjusted to life in a new city, and how quickly it felt like home to me.  Within weeks I was fearlessly navigating the subway, taking solo runs through Central Park, and carping on slow-moving tourists like a true New Yorker.  I forgot all about living in Pennsylvania (though I still missed Wawa) and living in a traditional home.  But after Minnow was born, the desire for a grassy yard, a formal dining room, and little white candles in the windows began to resurface. 

Our home search began in earnest in 2011, when Minnow was about six months old.  We found a beautiful town on Long Island with paved sidewalks, tall trees, and excellent schools.  It reminded me of the Main Line, so we decided to concentrate our search there.  Almost immediately we made an offer on a center-hall colonial, which the owners accepted.  The house was charming, but not perfect.  It had aluminum siding, which my husband didn’t like; only one full bathroom, which I didn’t like; and a sagging roof, which our inspector didn’t like.  After the homeowners refused to split the cost to replace the roof, we were forced to walk away from the deal.  I was devastated.  Our daughter’s toys and accessories were prevailing over the rapidly dwindling space in our one-bedroom apartment, and we needed a solution.

We relocated to a two-bedroom apartment in Bronxville and signed an 18-month lease to give us time to continue the search for our dream starter home.  We downloaded the Trulia, Zillow, and New York Times Real Estate apps to give us a head’s up on the housing market.   We attended open houses almost every weekend.

In July of last year we saw a whitewashed brick colonial on a manicured street in our preferred town.   It looked exactly like the homes I used to draw as a child: Square body, triangular roof, chimney, symmetrical windows, attached garage.  It was breathtaking but, unfortunately, its appeal ended at the curb.  The interior was wrapped from floor to ceiling in bold, botanical-print wallpapers.  The carpets were fit for a cat, and no one else.  The kitchen cabinets, painted sky blue, were original to the house and dated back to the 1930s. 

It was absolutely perfect and I knew, as much as I knew about my husband the first time we met: It would be mine someday.

“I don’t see it,” my husband said after we left the open house.  “It needs a lot of work.”

“So did you,” I quipped.

We didn’t make an offer on the house and it sat on the market for several months.  The homeowners bumped the price down a few times, but it didn’t sell.  Each time the price was reduced I would inform my husband, and each time he would voice his doubts.  One day in late November the house was no longer listed for sale on any of my real estate apps.  I was, again, devastated.  I called the seller’s agent and she gave me some encouraging news: The owners had decided to take the house off the market during the holidays, but intended on relisting it after Christmas.

The weekend after Christmas we walked through the white brick house for a second time.  This time my husband was more open to the idea of living there because this time I had a special ally: Peanut.  She’s coming, and she needs a bedroom!  We made an offer on January 2^nd.  Our offer was accepted on January 4^th.  We signed a sales contract on January 13^th.  The dream of owning a home appeared to be within reach.

And then, for lack of a better term, a lot of shit went down.  Our home inspection revealed that the house was missing several roof shingles, presumably from Super Storm Sandy, and exhibited evidence of termite damage in the basement.  The sellers, at first, refused to fix either problem.  Then it took them six weeks to sign the sales contract because they didn’t want to represent that all of the appliances were in working condition ("an ambiguous phrase," they said) and wanted us to agree that they could leave “any an all personal property on the premises after closing and title [would] automatically pass from sellers to buyers.”  (That’s a literal line from the original contract.  If you had seen the state of their garage and basement, you would understand why we couldn’t sign off on that.) 

Then the 86-year-old seller husband had an emergency appendectomy, from which he had to recover in the hospital for six weeks.

Then we were constructively evicted from our apartment, and moved in with my in-laws. 

Then the sellers (again) asked me if we would mind if they left their pool table in the basement.  (We minded).

It took over four months, but on Monday, the guy I met on spring break and I became the owners of our very first home:

As we walked through the house after closing, my husband stopped at the living room window and began scanning the wall below it.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He pointed to an outlet to the left of the window.  “And that’s where you’ll plug in your candle,” he said.

Over the Bridge, Pt. 2: A New Life

Every Monday and Wednesday morning, Minnow and I cross the Throgs Neck Bridge from Long Island to Westchester so that she can continue to attend her 2's program in Bronxville.  With the recent toll hikes, the trip costs us $7.50 each way, and takes an hour and fifteen minutes during rush hour and another forty-five minutes on the way home.  I probably need my head examined to spend two hours in the Jeep twice a week so that my two-year-old can spend about the same amount of time painting pinecones and singing songs about dinosaurs, but I’m trying to be a good mom.  I’m trying to maintain a modicum of normalcy in Minnow’s world while the rest of it is being tipped on its axis.  On the days we travel to Bronxville, I also take Minnow to her favorite playground after school and sometimes- as a treat- to her favorite bagel store for a mini whole-wheat bagel. 

Long, congested commutes to school are not new to me.  When I attended law school in North Philadelphia, I lived 7.5 miles away in a leafy Main Line suburb.  According to Map Quest, the trip should take approximately 17 minutes, but traveling on I-76 or Route 1 to Broad Street takes closer to an hour during rush hour.  My drive to school only added to the unrelenting misery of being a law student.  Nothing- besides the Socratic method- could raise my blood pressure quite like nonsensically slow-moving traffic, especially around the Conshohocken Curve.  (It’s there every morning, folks.  Learn to navigate it.)  I was notoriously late for class, often sauntering in red-faced after the professor had already begun interrogating unlucky punctual classmates. 

What got me through those harrowing daily voyages was listening to public radio.  It’s how I became acquainted with the likes of My Morning Jacket, Ray LaMontagne, and Vampire Weekend.  I was such a devoted listener that, despite my lack of income, I became a supporting member of the station for three consecutive years.  When I moved to New York after law school, I took a break from driving and, thus, decent music, but when I relocated to Westchester and bought a Jeep, I rediscovered how much I love public radio.  It is thanks to public radio that I’ve added Alabama Shakes, The Head and the Heart, and Josh Ritter to my music rotation.

Minnow and I listen to public radio every morning on our expeditions across the Long Island Sound.  This morning we heard the new song by Jim James of My Morning Jacket, and as I reflected on the lyrics, I realized how appropriate it is to our current transition into homeownership:

Babe, open the door

And start your new life,

Oh, your new life.

Babe, on to the shore,

And start your new life,

Your new life, once more.       

In a couple short months, I'll only have the memories of our irrational, early-morning trips back and forth to Bronxville.  In a couple short years, I'll only have the memories of Minnow in the back seat, kicking her feet and singing along the best she can.  ("I sorry, Mommy, I don't know all the words.")  But songs like this, and the traffic-cancelling emotions they stir within me, will remain.  

More Bubble Wrap

"We go to Staples today, Mommy?”

“Yes, Honey.”

“Ooooh.  We need more bubble wrap, Mommy?”

“Yes.  And boxes.”

We are moving in two days and Minnow has come to expect daily runs to the office supply chain because I continue to underestimate the quantity of packing materials this move requires.  The thing is, packing materials are unconscionably expensive, so I've been supplementing our dwindling supply by poking around our building’s recycling bin at night, searching for discarded Amazon and Soap boxes.  As I pack, I label each box with a number, which coordinates with a master list I’ve created that itemizes the contents of each box.  So far we have thirty boxes.  It’s still not enough.

And bubble wrap- there’s never enough bubble wrap!  My awareness that the movers will have to carry our belongings down four flights of stairs has caused me sleep-impairing nightmares of busted books, shattered platters, and splintered frames.  I am particularly concerned about a decoupage glass tray of an essay on Central Park written by a schoolchild in the 1850s. It- and everything else-is getting a double layer of bubble wrap.

~

The night before the move, my husband and I tackle the final packing task: The kitchen.  I foolishly believe that it will take two people approximately two hours to clear the cabinets.  Three hours later, we are carefully swathing glassware in tissue because we’ve used up all the bubble wrap.   My eyelids are drooping.

“I’m quitting at midnight,” I say, adhering to my old law school policy that you can always catch up in the morning.

“No way,” my husband replies.  “We’re not quitting until the job’s done.”

Unfortunately- and predictably- the boxes soon run out.  We haven’t even packed the pots and pans.  My husband is exasperated. 

“Why didn’t you buy more boxes?”

“I did!”

“Why didn’t you buy enough?”

“Because they’re four dollars a box!”

Happily, the Home Depot in Yonkers opens at 6 a.m.  My husband will be there when they unlock the doors.

~

The movers descend at 9 a.m. sharp and immediately begin hoisting boxes I’ve boldly labeled “FRAGILE!” like Nerf balls under their arms.  There’s five of them- giant, hulking figures- and they’re in every room, touching my stuff.  A familiar ball of panic forms in my chest.  I’d do this job myself if I weren’t pregnant.  Feeling helpless, I pace the apartment with a broom, collecting debris destined to be redistributed each time one of the Goliaths plods by.  “Why don’t you go get some coffee,” my husband suggests.

Going into town is good for me.  Although it took me some time to adjust to life in Bronxville, the truth is I quite like it here.  Bronxville is a picturesque village, one-square-mile in area, with a town center consisting of Tudor-style storefronts arranged in inviting rows.  My favorite of these is Slave to the Grind, which has replaced Starbucks as my go-to coffee stop.  I order my usual vanilla skim chai and linger for longer than what is necessary to finish it.

When I return, the movers have cleared all the boxes from the apartment and are working on the furniture. One of them attempts to move a solid wood bookcase unassisted and hits the top of the doorway on his way out.  He collides with the stucco walls and plaster ceiling in the hall so many times, I’m convinced it’s intentional.  My husband runs after him.

“What are you doing?” he shouts, sweeping up flakes of fallen plaster with his hands so that our management company won’t notice.  “Furniture is a two-man job!”

The bookcase suffers a deep gash on its side, for which the moving company will meagerly reimburse us.

~

Conditions do not improve at the storage facility.  The act of moving is inherently stressful, but moving into a storage unit, rather than a new residence, is more than I can really tolerate.  My husband and I decide to split up.  I will stand on the loading dock as our belongings are unloaded from the truck; he will supervise the relocation of furniture and boxes into the unit. 

As the men start to unpack the truck, I notice that one of the boxes- Box #5- has collapsed under the weight of the items stacked on top of it.   I frantically pull out the master list from my purse and reference the contents of Box #5.  Naturally, it’s the box with the Central Park tray inside.  Instead of acknowledging the busted box, the movers gingerly step around it as they unload other items from the truck. 

“Excuse me,” I squeak.  “Could I please see that box?”

The men ignore me, so I step closer to the truck and try again.

“Excuse me, may I please see that box?”

“What box?”

“Uh, the broken one,” I say, pointing to the one sagging like a pair of gangsta jeans.

“What you got in there?”

“Books, mostly.  Some photo albums.  A few fragile items on top.”

“Well that ain’t a box you use for books,” the mover replies defensively.

“Sorry,” I reply.  “The boxes weren’t labeled at Staples.”

~

I text my husband from the loading dock and ask if we can trade places.  He texts back, “Trust me, you don’t want to be up here.  It's harrowing.”  Intrigued, I take the elevator to our unit on the second floor.

A live episode of “Hoarders” is playing out in front of the unit assigned to us.  When my husband went up to open it, he discovered that it was filled with someone else’s stuff.  The squatters, who rent the unit across from us, had been illicitly using our unit to store their excess junk, rather than upgrade to a larger unit.   Now they are standing in the space between our unit and theirs, sorting through boxes of old photos, records, and books.  There is a sofa, a table, several chairs, and a large stone planter for which they still need to find room in their insufficient unit. 

I’d be concerned for the squatters' situation if I weren’t distracted by our own.  Watching the movers pile our possession into a 10x13 container is like witnessing a precarious game of Tetris.  There is no logic to their method of stacking bags of bedding atop boxes of books atop mirrors atop toy tables.  I am reminded of one of Minnow’s favorite Dr. Seuss books, “Fox on Socks:”

And here’s a new trick, Mr. Knox,

Socks on chicks and chicks on fox,

Fox on clocks on bricks and blocks,

Bricks and blocks on Knox on box.

As I take the elevator back to the loading dock, I hear Minnow’s little voice echo in my head:

“We need more bubble wrap, Mommy?”

God, I hope not. 

Two Weeks' Notice

One of the more distressing parts of buying a house, at least for me as a former landlord/tenant law intern, is breaking our lease with our landlords.  Our lease doesn’t expire until October, but when we bid on the Long Island house in January, we know that staying in Bronxville until the fall is implausible.   I’m already finding the four flights of stairs to our front door cumbersome and I’ve only just started my second trimester.  “You need to talk to Jeff and Theresa,” my husband says the day before we are scheduled to meet with our attorney to sign the real estate contract.  “You have to tell them.”

Naturally, concocting a way to worm out of a contractual obligation falls to me, the licensed- if not technically practicing- attorney.  My husband deals with all the financial aspects of the transaction: Locking the mortgage rate, securing the insurance binder, shooting down my efforts to outfit each room as if it is destined to be featured in an upcoming issue of Architectural Digest.  In other words, he gets all the easy tasks.

My palms are clammy as I dial Theresa’s number.  Jeff and Theresa are about five years older than us and have two children of their own.  They are perfectly lovely, reasonable people, but something tells me that they will not be as excited as we are about our forthcoming foray into homeownership. 

To my amazement, I am wrong.  “We’re so happy for you guys!” Theresa exclaims after I’ve finished rattling off the spiel I prepared on index cards and practiced at least six times in the shower.  “And we kind of figured after we got your card.”  She is referring to the announcement in our recent Christmas card that we are expecting our second child this summer.  Theresa says that she and Jeff had preemptively discussed what they would do if we asked to terminate the lease, and they’ve decided to list the apartment for sale.  “When do you think you’ll close?” Theresa asks.  “Some time in April, I think,” I reply, though it’s hard to know for sure because in New York closing dates are approximate.  Based on that, we agree that the last day of our tenancy will be April 30th.

“This could not have worked out any better,” my husband observes when I recap my conversation with Theresa later that evening.  “I know,” I agree, but I still feel uneasy.  I am certain that breaking a lease should not be this painless.

Again, I seem to be wrong.  Within days I am standing in the kitchen with Jeff and Theresa’s listing agent, discussing plans for a photographer to take pictures for the listing and scheduling dates in February to hold an open house.  A few days after that, when the listing is posted on the Internet, I feel a real sense of pride of ownership.  The apartment appears warm and inviting, and our furnishings look fabulous.  “I want to live there,” I say to my husband as we toggle through the pictures of our living room, our bedroom, our bathroom.  And I mean it; I do want to live here, but I know that we cannot. 

The second week of February, we go to Florida for six days.  When we return our landlords are entertaining three offers on the apartment.  The best is from an all-cash buyer bidding their asking price.  The only catch is, he wants to move in by April 1^st.  “Would that be a problem?” Theresa asks over the phone.  “Uh, sort of,” I reply honestly.  Then I supplement my answer with some nervous babble about how we don’t want to impede the sale, and if we had to I’m sure we could make it work, and maybe we could put all our stuff in storage and temporarily live with my husband’s parents on Long Island.

Fortunately, the very next day a new buyer makes an even higher offer, and our landlords accept it.  This buyer, Theresa assures me over the phone, does not need to move into the apartment by any certain date, but in honor of my first year contracts professor, Amy Boss, I have Theresa put it in writing that we can reside in the apartment until April 30^th.

February melts into March.  We celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with our traditional Shamrock Shakes, begin decorating for Easter, and fill out our tournament brackets.  The weekend before Easter, I receive another phone call from Theresa.

“Bad news,” she says.  “Our buyers need to be out of their current living situation earlier than expected, so we are closing on April 8^th.”

“Oh my God,” is all I can think to say.  April 8^th is two weeks away.  “Theresa, I’m sorry, but it is physically impossible for us to be out by then.” 

I’m not trying to be melodramatic.  It’s just that I’m six months pregnant, I have a 2 ½ year old toddler, my husband works long hours, and the mere thought of cardboard boxes exhausts me.  Unfortunately, Jeff and Theresa, who for months have been two of the loveliest, most reasonable people we’ve known, are suddenly not so lovely and reasonable.

“No,” Theresa says, “The bottom line is, you have to be out by April 8^th.  Otherwise our buyers will literally be homeless.”

I despise the overuse of the word literally.  Please look up the word literally in the dictionary then tell me if that is really what you mean.

Regardless, I reply in similar fashion: “Theresa, if we have to move out by April 8^th, we will literally be homeless.”

“What about your in-laws?” she retorts.

There is a lesson to be learned here, folks:  No matter how lovely and reasonable your landlords seem, no matter how much they remind you of yourselves in five years, never, ever share with them that you have family living within a 50-mile radius.  They will use it against you.

The lawyer in me wanted to fight.  I could have argued that they were constructively evicting us without cause, that once we terminated the old lease and agreed on the April 30^th move-out date, we converted to a month-to-month tenancy, which, under New York law, requires 30 days’ written notice from either party to cancel.  Instead, I handed the phone to my husband and threw myself on our bed in a fit of tears.

In the end, we agreed to move out on Saturday, April 6^th.  Our landlords agreed to waive rent for the six days in April that we’d reside in the apartment, and they agreed to pay for our storage for the month of April.  We had two weeks to hire movers, buy packing materials, and figure out how we were going to fit our life into a 10x13 storage unit. 

I had a feeling it was going to require a lot of bubble wrap…