Homemaking. Or not.

So yesterday I was frantically filling out some last minute medical forms for Jon's college.  They asked for my husband's occupation.  And then they asked for mine.  I felt quite a pang as I wrote, "homemaker."  Ha.  Homemaker indeed.  Adrift in a sea of boxes, overwhelmed, exhausted and unmotivated.

I had a home, but it was torn apart, literally, thrown unceremoniously into boxes by "professional" packers high on marijuana.

One of our packers, the highest one with the utterly blank blue eyes, was Really Bad. His idea of packing:

1. Stuff some packing paper into bottom of box.
2. Up-end organized drawer into said box. Continue up-ending organized drawers until box is almost full.
3. Stuff some more packing paper over the top.
4. Seal box with packing tape and label as "misc." ( I am really beginning to despise the word "misc.")

The boxes (and everything else) landed here in Illinois, too much stuff to fit into the new house, even after we gave a lot of things away to friends, held a garage sale, made multiple trips to the Salvation Army and the Rescue Mission, and many more trips to the dump on Rock Cut Road.  There is still far too much stuff.  Eighteen years of cherished memories rooted out and smashed into boxes.

This house feels a little bit like a beach house, except for all the boxes and packing paper everywhere, and the way the furniture awkwardly doesn't fit.  But it feels a little like a beach house, and the way we go to the store, bring home bags of food that is not from Wegman's and try to cook it in whatever way we can improvise, that feels like a beach house too, sort of.  This morning I opened the refrigerator door and had the involuntary thought, "I think I would really like to go home now."

But home isn't there.  The house is... I think of it, empty, waiting for the new owners to close, and how I hope they love it.  But the contents of home have all been yanked out and deposited here for me to sort through.  And I am not any good at sorting.

Homemaker.  I wish!