We’re moving. And no, I don’t want to talk about it.
Unless you’re bringing snacks and muscle. Preferably both.

Right now, my life is a chaotic swirl of cardboard boxes, random socks, loud emotions, and the occasional chicken that absolutely does not want to stay in her coop. And the kicker? I’m doing it all with one functioning hand. So while I’m over here trying to channel my inner Tetris master, it’s the boys and my husband doing the actual lifting and hauling.

Which, let me tell you, is a whole vibe in itself.

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My husband and I have wildly different approaches to moving.
He’s Team “Wait ‘til Moving Day and Haul It All at Once.”

I’m Team “Pack Now Like My Life Depends On It Because It Kinda Feels Like It Does.”

To be fair, I’ve moved over 20 times in my life. I know the drill. He’s moved less than five. I want everything labeled, sorted, and color-coded three weeks in advance. He wants to throw it all in a truck and figure it out later.

So naturally, this leads to me packing like a woman on a mission—boxes everywhere, lists taped to walls, my one hand full of sharpies and tape. Meanwhile, he’s hauling furniture and fielding tiny helpers who have Very Big Feelings about what gets boxed up.

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Now enter: the twins.
My six-year-old chaos gremlins who don’t remember the last move because they were only 16 months old at the time. So to them, this feels like we’re leaving our entire life behind.

Every hour, on the hour:

“But are we taking my bed?”
“My LEGOs? My nightlight? My books?”
“THE COUCH?!”
“Wait… the fridge???”

Yes, babies. The fridge is coming. The couch, too. And your entire fleet of stuffed animals. I promise.
No, I don’t know how I’m going to fit all this in one moving truck. I’m just here to panic and label boxes with one hand and a dream.

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Every box I pack, they unpack.
Every donation bag I fill? Raided.
Apparently, now is the moment they rediscover their deep emotional attachment to the McDonald’s toy they haven’t touched since 2020.

I try to sneak stuff out quietly, but these boys have sixth-sense radar for sentimental junk.

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Meanwhile, the animals are not helping.

The chickens have zero respect for boundaries. The dogs are stressed. And I’m dodging feathers, fur, and feelings while trying not to trip over a toy racecar mid-meltdown.

We’ve made what feels like a thousand trips to storage. My car is part minivan, part donation bin, part emotional support vehicle.

And don’t even get me started on meals. I packed all the kitchen essentials last week, so now I’m making dinner with one pot, one hand, and an expired can of beans I found behind the cereal.

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New household rule: “If this had poop on it, would I still keep it?”
That’s how I’m deciding what stays and what gets tossed.
Savage? Maybe. Efficient? Absolutely.

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Also, what is sleep?
Every early morning (like 4am), while everyone is sleeping, except maybe the occasional chicken, I’m up solo—packing, sorting, questioning my life choices, and wondering why we own 27 unmatched socks and five broken flashlights.

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But here’s the thing:
This move is hard. Especially for two neurodivergent kiddos who crave predictability and sameness like I crave caffeine and silence.

So we talk it out. Again. And again.
I reassure, I snuggle, I let them peek in boxes and help tape things up—even if that means repacking the same stuff six times.

Everything that matters is coming with us.
The toys, the pets, the chaos, the love.
Even the refrigerator.

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We’re not just moving houses—we’re building a new chapter.
With chickens in tow, late-night packing parties, and a very special McDonald’s toy leading the way.

And yeah, I may be one-handed right now—but luckily, I’ve got a whole crew (even the tiny emotional ones) helping me carry the load.