We're in pretty good shape over here. I think we are, anyway.
I spent the entire day moving stuff around. I'm trying to get 900 pounds into the sunroom, and everything else out of the sunroom. How much is 900 pounds, anyway? Because you want to guess as close as you can. If you only separate out, say, 700 pounds, then after they weigh it you'll run around the house firing random crap into the box until you hit 900. But if you go over your 900 pound limit, you'll agonize over what to take out.
I tend to go under. So this time I have a mental list of the things I want to toss in at the last minute.
All of the rugs are clean and rolled up - no small feat, that, as it takes forever to vacuum, flip, shake, vacuum, flip and roll each one. Especially if you have an almost-4-year-old helping you. The pictures are mostly down from the walls, dusted and stacked in the living room. The toiletries are boxed up. Half of the kitchen is in the sunroom already, and the rest of the kitchen is slowly making its way over.
The real challenge is figuring out how much space there is in the suitcases. You don't want to over-estimate, or you'll have too many things and not enough suitcases after the movers leave.
So tomorrow I will continue the challenge of packing the suitcases. I'll also yank all of the bedding from the beds the minute those little beasties awake so I can get it all washed, dried, folded and stacked in the sunroom by nightfall.
I'm exhausted just thinking about it. But there is light at the end of this packout tunnel - by Saturday, I'll have an empty house.
Even though I'm doing all of this work, I still find it hard to believe I'll be on a plane any day now, winging my way out of here. I'm definitely in manic mode - happy, sad, happy again. By now, I know what to expect of myself when I leave a place. I know what's going to happen. And yet I never get used to it.