My weekend was one for the record books. No, not the Guinness Book of Records but the book of the longest, most draining, non-fun weekends ever.
First, we had to move. I’ve been packing dishes, clothes, shoes and breaking down furniture with seemingly no end. I can’t believe we accumulated so much junk in one year. Not saying my wife and I are hoarders, but we come from a long line of hoarding people. It’s in our blood. We need to break the curse.
We found birthday gifts the kids received last year. One was still wrapped and stuffed with colorful paper. Luckily the person who gave it to my son TT didn’t know his size, so it actually fits him now. Too bad it’s a winter jacket. I’m sure we will re-gift it for Christmas.
Friends never seem to be available on moving weekend. Well, at least this past weekend they happened to be free after 8pm since we were ordering the Mayweather vs. Pacquiao fight. The fight was a disappointment in itself, unless you happened to be playing “Words with Friends.” After each corner conversation with Floyd Sr. I still haven’t found the origin to three, possibly four, words days later.
And if my weekend wasn’t hard enough, we just started potty training my 19-month-old son, who seems to thinks it’s funny to say “poo poo” after he has already done his thing. I just feel lucky that we only had one missing turd but we located it behind two boxes that had a mysterious smell. I knew I hadn’t packed away a pet skunk or porta potty so it kinda found itself.
Later that night I was on the balcony looking back at the boxes and the training pot and I asked, WHY ME LORD? Oh what did I do to deserve such an awesome family to pack for and to be so blessed to have two wonderful funky little kids to chase around?
And at that point I didn’t care why me. I was just glad it was me.
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