I keep swearing we don’t have THAT much stuff. But I’m really good at lying to myself and others. But really, I don’t think we have THAT much stuff.
I’m just tired of dealing with it all.
We live in one of those 1960’s homes with the three levels – the main on one side, then five stairs up and five stairs down. I’ve gotten the main level under control, so the place isn’t a totally embarrassment if someone stops by. It also gives me one area of calm to look at in the midst of all the chaos of unpacking.
Downstairs? Well, the family room down there is awful. I tried working on it Friday, but then let the children use it again, so it’s awful again. My bedroom is stacks of stuff that need new homes. The older girl’s room is chaotic, as the movers put stuff in boxes and marked it “toys” when it wasn’t really toys, put boxes that didn’t belong in there into the room, and then there’s the fact that a teenage girl is living in there anyway. And the boys room…I had to walk away. Who let these feral creatures unpack without supervision anyway?
I’m trying to figure out how we fit this all into the smaller Dublin house. I can’t even imagine what it would be like if we kept everything we had before moving to Ireland.
It will get better. It’s not really that bad right now. We don’t have that much stuff. I don’t need to take a Molotov cocktail to the boys room.
I’m just sick of unpacking.