Packing is a labor of something or other

Friday and Saturday were two of the most stressful days I've had in a long while. And I know I'm prone to exaggeration, but I'm seriously not exaggerating one iota, here. Not even a smidgen.

And also, a note to The Plan: YOU SUCK. You suck because you lulled me into feeling prepared for this move. You suck because you made me feel like I was working hard. You suck because you lied.

I was NOT prepared for this move. And though I did work hard, it certainly was not hard enough. Because D and I essentially packed and move every single item we own this weekend. And we did all this on two of the hottest days we've seen this summer. I think we could turn the entire Sahara into an oasis from the sweat D and I produced.

Saturday, while I was deep in the trenches, I realized what moving is most akin to: labor. I know that sounds like yet another exaggeration, but everyone (and especially women who have experienced both) hear me out.

Ok, so you're just starting on the moving/packing journey. Much like labor, it's not something you're really looking forward to, but you're excited for the end result. You start off in the morning of day one, and you're in a decent mood. The contractions (or packing, cleaning, etc.) are light and relatively easy, and you're jovial. You are starting to see that you have a long fight ahead of you, but you're feeling ok. Probably laughing, probably cracking a few jokes with your husband.

About half-way through day one, you're starting to show signs of wear. Labor: The work is getting harder and you're starting to wonder when you can get the epidural. You feel like you've been making really good progress, and since you've been at it for like 4 or 5 hours already, you're certain that when the nurse comes in, she'll tell you it won't be long until it's time to push. But she comes in and tells you you're only dilated to 2. Suck.

Translation: You've been packing your rear off for hours and you feel like you should be making a lot of headway, but the house looks like a bigger disaster than when you started and your husband keeps moving boxes out but the melee refuses to subside.

End day one: You are exhausted and irritable. You snap at your husband whenever he speaks to you and if there is a joke made anywhere within a 50 yard radius of your room, you get a possessed look on your face and swear to all that is holy that you will beat the daylights out of the inconsiderate jerk who is daring to laugh while you're working so freakin hard.

Day two: You can't believe you have to continue. Suddenly, the pressure is on. The nurse comes to your room and tells you holy crap you're dilated to 10 and it's time to push. No, there's no time for an epidural, you're going to have to go at it the old-fashioned way.

Translation: Your realtor came to take pictures of the house and suddenly you're being whipped into a frenzy because you realize that you have like 4 hours left to get things done. Any semblance of conversation or joking are long, long gone. Everyone around you knows that it's most conducive to their health to be quiet, keep their heads down, and don't say a word. Except the only person beside you is your husband because everyone with any sense got the heck out of dodge when the going started to get tough. You realize that you're pretty much on your own. Suck.

Day two, pushing: Now is where the hardest work comes. You're starting to feel the worst pain in your life. You wonder why you wanted to ever do this in the first place. Who thought this would be a good idea? Why would anyone ever do this more than once? This is the dumbest idea in the history of all ideas everywhere. I changed my mind, I don't want to do this anymore. Let's just call a truce and we'll go on our separate ways. But you know you can't. You know the only way to end the most awful pain you've ever felt is to push through and get it done.

Translation: Crunch time. You're running out of moving boxes. You skimp and stretch the packing tape because you can't stomach the idea of buying yet another roll. You start throwing crap away simply because you are so tired of thinking that you don't want to be bothered to figure out what to do with it. You just want to curl up and sleep forever but everyone keeps looking at you like they are going to squeeze every last drop of energy/productivity out of you before they carelessly toss your worthless carcass to the side of the road.

End day two, the baby is here: You did it. The baby is here. You lie back and thank God that it's finally over. But why isn't the doctor going away? Wait a minute, what is she doing? Why is she beating the crap out of my stomach? Placenta? WHO CARES ABOUT THE PLACENTA? Just let it hang out in my stomach forever because what you're doing hurts like a mother and I just had a baby for crap's sake. Didn't I do enough already?? And excuse me, what did you just say? You want me to try to feed that baby using my what now? Please just go away and let me take my well-deserved sleep. Did you not just witness what I've been through?

Translation: The packing is finished. Boxes are where they need to go. You get to your new abode and crash into whatever item is closest at hand (hopefully a cushy sofa, but the floor with a wall to lean against will do). You lay your head back, close your eyes and fight sleep. Weariness and fatigue course through your body. You open your eyes and see.....boxes. The boxes you just packed. The boxes that you just hauled booty for two days to pack and move. The boxes that you'd Planned and packed for three weeks. And those stupid, ungrateful boxes want you to unpack them now. Brats! I JUST packed you! Shut up and be content for one freakin minute, will ya? DID YOU NOT JUST WITNESS WHAT I'VE BEEN THROUGH? Suck.