-Back in the middle of June, we got the call, we had a house we could view, a gorgeous little 2 bedroom, close to public transport, close to supermarkets…and it was a fucking house.
We were coming from a tiny 1 bedroom flat, barely enough for 1 person, and here we were, 2 adults, a cat and a now 4 month old trying to survive in this tiny home. We loved it, it had so many memories, it was the home we brought miss baby to after leaving the hospital, but space was just the biggest issue. Mainly the “get the fuck out my space” problem.
So we view the place, needs a bit of work, but it’s nothing some carpet and paint won’t fix, but we knew it would take som serious effort. When he asks if we want it, the word yes comes out my mouth before he even finishes his sentence, I’m practically vibrating with excitement.
Viewing over, the house is as good as ours, so notice is given, and the packing begins… off we pop to our local homebargain like a hungry lion on the hunt for boxes, should be easy. Not chance. After grabbing boxes, packing tape, and a few snacks cos fuck it who doesn’t love snacks we walk home. Thank god for the pram, that’s all I’m saying, cos we were looking like fucking Sherpas climbing a mountain, occasionally being swept away by the wind like a god damn kite.
So a week later we have the keys, we’ve paid out first weeks rent, and we are now renting our first family home. Let the struggle begin. I’ve called my dad, we’ve organised a moving date for 2 weeks away, and in this time we have to pack up the flat, paint the 2 rooms we are getting carpet, sort blinds…and look after a tiny human who’s entire life revolves around the attention received from mum and dad. We got this? Right?
With the help of my grandmother and her car we were able to get all we needed for painting, and about 6 carloads worth of stuff from the flat to the house, oh and a dump run. The flat feels like a shell, and we are in packing limbo, we have one plate and one bowl each, a knife, fork and spoon, and a mug. If nothing else it saved on the washing up, mainly because we just have a lot more take out food.
It was just pure chaos, we were living out of boxes, nothing was where it was the last time I saw it, and on top of this, we were having a heatwave. Just fucking why.
So at this point in the space of a week, I’d set up bills, sorted the internet, gotten carpet down, blinds up, walls painted, and couched delivered, we were fucking exhausted, especially with painting, because miss baby is going through the lovely phase of if you aren’t paying me direct attention I’m gunna cry like I’m dying, so it became at tag team effort of “you do the top half and I’ll watch the baby then we swap”.
Finally moving day arrives, we’ve walked a million steps already to and from the flat to the house and we have one finally push. With miss baby palmed off on my grandmother for the day, we get our move on. It takes all day, with my dad and boyfriend doing the majority of the heavy lifting. And we are in.
Oh but we aren’t done, oh no, now we have furniture to build, beds, cots, changing tables, we crack on until we’ve done as much as is humanly possible before we collapse on the couch and refuse to move until miss baby is dropped back off.
My main point in all of this is, if you are moving, and you have a baby, the only thing I can say is good luck, because I’ve not known stress like it.
surviving parenthood 
Leave a comment