how to pack up your life

“Daddy,” I screech with a giggle. “Chubby can’t fit in this box.”

I try again to shove my eight foot tall stuffed bear, aptly named Chubby, into the small and all too familiar cardboard box, labeled Home Depot on the side.

“I don't know if Chubby can come with us this time, honey,” my dad calls from the stairs. But when he comes into my bedroom and sees the medieval display of my sister and I contorting this poor stuffed animal into the moving box, he cracks a solemn smile and adds, “well, I guess he can ride with us in the truck.”

I haphazardly throw the rest of my stuffed animals into the box, this time they all fit. I watch Mickey and Minnie Mouse fall to the smooth cardboard surface, then Lotso the Bear, from my favorite movie Toy Story on top of them, along with the stuffed alligator my mom brought back from Florida last year. Finally, my most prized possessions, the stuffed bears I received the day I was born, and have fallen asleep with every night since. I place the two of them gently on top, careful not to hurt them. Once my mom asked me, “If our house was on fire and you could only save one thing, what would it be?” Of course I needed no time to think of the answer, it would be blue bear and purple bear. As I stare at them in the sad, dingy box, I decide I want to just carry them with me rather than close them up in the cardboard prison. They don't deserve the same treatment as my other lame stuffed animals. Plus, this isn't my first rodeo. I know what happens when we move: things go missing, like my favorite zip up sweatshirt from Justice. It had purple and pink peace signs on it, and it was once folded tightly and packed away to be put in my new room, but it never made it back onto a hanger.

With Blue Bear and Purple Bear tucked securely under my arm, I lift the small box full of my best friends and trudge back down the stairs, placing the bears on the saggy brown couch as I pass by it. After ten million trips to the Uhaul truck, I wipe away the sweat forming right under my purple flowered headband. I picked that headband out this morning to match my lilac shorts, one of only a few pairs that weren't already sealed away with the rest of my belongings.

 I sit on the steps of our porch, my back facing the scorching August sun.

“Almost done,” My dad promises as he heads back through the screen door.

I give a melodramatic groan, turning to look up at my bedroom window. This house has been my least favorite so far. I always thought it was haunted; the way I got chills down my back when I went upstairs alone, the way the light above the sink would flicker, the way my dad was always mad. I was mostly resentful of the fact my mom moved out of this house after only a year of us moving in. Every time I walked past the fireplace in the family room, I remembered the dreadful day two summers ago, when my parents sat us down on the worn, itchy fabric of the loveseat. My sister and I thought they were surprising us with a trip to Disney World. Spoiler alert, we didn't get a trip to Disney. Instead we got a fun trip to moms new house! I didn’t like how this house broke us.

Blinking away the tears that are fighting their way out of my eyes, I stand to go inside. I think I deserve a popsicle for my efforts. I find my dad in the kitchen, looking for a refreshing snack of his own.

“Have you packed up everything from your room?” he asks with his brows furrowed.

I look down at the brown hardwood. “Yeah.”

“Sorry we have to leave.”

“Yeah.”

I know it's not his fault that we’re moving again. He had told me one night, his voice laced with bitterness, that it was because of my Grammy. She owns this house, but now she wants to sell it. At eight years old I was confused why she didn't warn us or anything, just made us get up and leave. But I accepted his explanation.

Still looking down at the sticky kitchen floor, I thought about my Grammy. I loved going to her house in the summer. She lived on the Cape, with a big pool and lots of orange soda at her house. We hadn't gone last summer though, I think she was on vacation.  I didn't feel angry at her either, it's her house after all. I thought my dad should be less stressed.

When I'm left with nothing but the red-dyed popsicle stick, I walk into the living room to sit on the couch and wait for my dad to finish putting boxes into the truck. One Hannah Montana episode later, he calls my sister and I from outside. I grab Blue Bear and Purple Bear and walk out to get in the car. Now, we’re going to my moms house for the week, while my dad finishes getting everything out of our house.

As we take the short ride to my Moms house, I think about all the different times I’ve had to pack up my clothes, my stuffed animals, my barbies. A part of me thinks it’s not fair that my parents make me pack my whole life up every few years, but I usually just push that thought away, feeling bad for thinking of my parents that way. They know everything, which is why I accept explanations without question.