Okay, I knew I had a lot of stuff, but it's surreal just how much stuff is in my house. If I didn't recognize it all, I'd probably look around and think, "Where did all of this come from?" I can't do that though. I remember it all-- the curse of a good memory. Sunday afternoon, I was working in the basement and it was like a trip down the craft aisle of memory lane. I found all the cloth I bought to make a "rustic" angel tree topper for the basement Christmas tree in one bag. (The angel wasn't made due to the lack of a yarn cone to serve as the base. Happily, I found one of those the other day while packing! Now, if I can just find it again...) I found a huge stack of fabric that I spent months collecting for a quilt for my own bed. (I am undaunted by the scope of a project. It's a failing of mine. In my mind, I know I should have hesitated when I decided that I could make a king sized quilt after having only made doll quilts but it never occurred to me that it might be too big of a project to tackle.) I found a stack of clothes in need of mending. Sadly, they won't be mended for the child who tore them but for the next in line. I guess that's a hidden benefit of having children every two years and then burying the mending pile for two years. Convenient, yes?
I feel like I have a constant clock ticking on the packing. It resonates in my very soul. Tick...tick...tick...tick...I feel the passage of time keenly but I can't seem to find the motivation to pack like a maniac. I usually find the motivation in a desperate push at the end, but this situation is different. I'm scared and I'm in trouble. I don't know which is worse...
I guess actually packing something would probably help. On that note, BYE!
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