It's happening again. That feeling I get as we edge closer to another move. Panic mixed with sadness, fear, exhaustion and worry. Another house to organize, pack up, clean, and leave. Clothes and toys and furniture to store, sell, or give away. Plane tickets to be bought. Lodging to be secured. Vehicle to be found. Schools to be left or enrolled. I'm not happy about it. I hate this part. The constant tearing off the bandage only to open new wounds, let them heal over, and then rip off the bandage again.
This time, we think we're coming back. We hope we're coming back. We don't know for sure. No one seems to know for sure. But the plan is, currently, to come back, though that doesn't even take into account the support we need to even get back. That will be a miracle in itself. But if or when we do come back, the plan is to stay longer than two years. The uprooting-our-family-every-24-months routine is getting old.
But before then, the leaving. The house is a hodgepodge of junk, ours and the landlord's. Move our stuff out, his stuff back in, and try to undo the damage Ella has done to every wall in the place, prepping for new people. A house that was never ours.
The task of sorting and throwing out is about to get brutal and ruthless. I gotta grab this move by the horns and tell it whose boss.