I hate moving.

I have a sense of adventure, don’t get me wrong. I just hate all the physical work that goes into moving everything you own from one place to another.

I’ve moved a record five times.

I was three the first time we relocated houses. My parents wanted to be closer to their inner city jobs. I remember very little of that adventure. It comes to me like flashbacks in a movie. I remember seeing the moving truck at night. That was because it was easier for my parents to move after work. I also remember trying to move my belongings to my second floor bedroom.

I had this cute painted wooden table and an assortment of chairs that went with it. I was too little to be of much help. I think I was given this task, but it may have just been an attempt to be helpful. I remember standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding one of the chairs. I may have begun to complain. I wasn’t the world’s most patient toddler.

I wanted to add a special moment from that move. I don’t remember much of my Aunt. She was my father’s brother’s wife. I think I saw her on our last day the beach house where I was born. Her husband, my Uncle Richard, gave me this lap piano. Much to the chagrin of my parents. Hey, at least it wasn’t a drum kit. I think I remember seeing her, standing with their daughter. It’s like looking at a faded picture where you can no longer see the faces. She died a few years later.

The second time we moved was, of course, to Mexico. I still feel that this trip was a bit sprung upon my sister and I. Maybe we were told and we didn’t pay attention. We were nine and four, so I wouldn’t be too surprised. I didn’t like the idea of leaving everything I knew for a foreign country, but I had little choice.

I did get my own room out of it, though. My sister and I had been sharing my bedroom since she came home from the hospital. To make the house appealing to potential buyers, my parents made a few changes. They turned my Mom’s home office into a third bedroom, for one thing.

Speaking of potential buyers, I remember spending weekends away from home. We’d spend our weekend afternoons at parks, the mall, and on nature trails. I remember one time we swung by the house to see the realtor’s car still there. I think those were the people who ended up buying our house.

When it finally came down to it, it seemed like we had no time to divide up our belongings.

We gave things away to the thrift shop. I remember dumping my sister’s baby stroller at the Salvation Army even though their rules forbade such a drop off.

We threw things away. I remember fighting with my sister over our bean bag chairs, because we were only allowed to keep one. She won, if memory serves. I’m not saying she’s spoiled. But she is.

I remember we rented a storage unit. What couldn’t fit there went to Grandma’s House.

Everything else was packed up on top of the car. I think I described it akin to the Joad Family car in Grapes of Wrath.

After Mexico, we lived with Grandma for a bit. Than we decided to move to the Outer Banks. I like to preen my ego and say that I saved us some money in the renting department. We were meeting with a guy who might have tried to rent us a more expensive house. At the end of said meeting, I told him that our big dog (Rommel) was a bit of a barker. He never called us back and we settled with the split level by the elementary school.

I remember thinking the house was so cool, at first. I was a bit jealous that my sister got the “cooler” bedroom, by the garage. Her room had a small mud room, is the best description I can give.

But of course we didn’t want to rent forever. I had just entered into high school when we bought our house. We had been house hunting for years. In fact, we had dismissed this house in the past. The realtor pictures didn’t do justice.

This house looked massive once we got a tour. It still looks big from certain exterior angles. The previous owner left some furniture, like the dining room table that I’m typing this on. He was also the original owner. In that he bought the house new and built outwards. This monster house used to be a small beachbox. It’s held together, for a thirty year old house, but things are beginning to go.

And now I’m returning to college. I’m not sure if this counts as moving, but it sure felt like it. I mean I had to pack up just about everything I owned. And than I had to go to Target to buy more things.

I feel I’m better prepared this year. In some aspects. I know what I really need, and what can stay at home. I know that I should pack my winter gear after fall break, because that cold snap was not expected.

OK, to be honest I am so scared I am going to get to my dorm room and realize I really need something. I’ve been over and over and over the checklist. I’m going to work myself into such a frenzy that I’m actually going to forget something. Welp.