Catharsis

After the movers drop the last box in our new home (and I do mean "drop;" several Crate & Barrel wine glasses are sacrificed in the move), I walk from room to room, surveying the job ahead.  It is overwhelming.  My in-laws have agreed to watch Minnow until 8 p.m. that evening, and I quickly realize that we will not be finished unpacking by the end of the day, or even the end of the weekend, as I had naively hoped.

I can't decide which I find more loathsome: Packing or unpacking.  Wrapping everything we own in multiple layers of bubble wrap and entrusting their fate to the storage gods is draining- no doubt about it- but I am having a difficult time unpacking because I don't yet know where anything goes.  We went from too little space to too much space, it seems.  This box of cleaning supplies could go in the linen closet, but it would be just as at home it in the laundry room.  Should that framed photograph of the Natural History Museum hang in the living room, or the den?  This vase would look equally elegant in the dining room or in the foyer... Also, there are some rooms in which we cannot unpack at all because the painters- God love them- are still painting.  They're going on four weeks now.

"I don't know where to begin," I say to my husband as I pry open boxes and then push them aside.

"Start in one room," he suggests.  "Do as much as you can in there, and move on to the next."

But in which room should I start?  The nursery is a logical first step, because I want to ensure that Peanut's room is ready, should she decide to move in early.  Then again, maybe I should start in the kitchen, the hearth of the home.  But the idea of spending an afternoon filling old, decrepit cabinets with my gleaming stainless steel cookware saddens me, so I decide to seek solace in the most cheerful corner of the house: My master bedroom closet.

In a home this old, it is rare to find one spacious closet in the master bedroom; it is absolutely urban legend to find two.  I feel like my husband and I hit the Power Ball with our equally-sized His and Hers closets.  Having a place to hang my clothes in the bedroom is certainly an upgrade from our first New York City apartment, where my closet was in the living room.  Here, we kept the antique bronze doorknobs- an homage to the former owners- and added fluorescent lights to each closet and the double light switch outside.

Obviously, a new closet calls for new hangers.  A few days before the move Minnow and I find boxes of these fun hot pink hangers, which would perk up any closet, from Bed Bath and Beyond.  They are slim and space-saving, which is important because  I am using them to hang my silk blouse collection, which is sizable.

Like a hoarder, I am big on saving shoe boxes.  I use them to store my most precious shoes, including a few pairs from the J.Crew collection.  Luckily, this closet has adequate shelf space to hold numerous boxed shoes, as well as a laundry basket packed with handbags.

I've had the shoe rack below since my freshman year of college.  It couldn't have cost more than $10 at Bed Bath and Beyond, yet it has proven to be one of the most useful closet organizers.  I've removed the top rack so that my clothes have more room to hang.  To maximize the remaining space, I stack shoes one on top of the other and plan to switch them out seasonally.  Hello, espadrilles!

Because we don't yet have master bedroom furniture, I am temporarily storing folded items in these stackable hot pink cubes from Ikea.  This cube contains all my running gear, which is washed and ready for my first post-partum run in about eight weeks.

Focusing first on the master bedroom closet is cathartic for me.  After my wardrobe is organized, balance is restored to the universe and I feel energized to tackle the rest of unpacking- room by room and box by box.

Of course, we all deal with stress in different ways.  While I am busy getting reacquainted with the clothes that have spent two months hanging in a cedar closet in my in-laws' attic, my husband works on this:

Aside from ample closet space, another benefit to owning a home is having a little land on which to plant a vegetable garden.  The tall plants are Beefsteak and Sweet 100 tomatoes- perfect for summer!

Never again will I need to buy parsley at the grocery store, thanks to my husband's green thumb.

Thyme and rosemary: Two of our most frequently-used cooking herbs.

I've got big plans of preparing jars and jars of fresh basil pesto in my ugly blue kitchen...

...which is probably the room I should work on next.

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.