They’re Touching All My Stuff

Welcome to military move Phase Three: Cardboard Chaos and Packing Paper Panic.

This dispatch isn't for all you DITY movers out there, those brave souls who voluntarily choose to move themselves from Point A to Point B. You are a special breed of warrior and I salute you.  But I also think you might be crazy.

Personally, I am a huge fan of professional packers. To the uninitiated, having a moving company show up and pack your entire house sounds luxurious, like you're some kind of celebrity. Gone are the days of packing your dorm room in liquor store boxes and bribing your roommate's boyfriend with pizza and eternal gratitude.

And to be fair, parts of it are glorious.

The mountain of cardboard boxes in a variety of sizes. The industrial-sized rolls of tape. The endless packing paper. Wardrobe boxes! Ratchet straps! Moving blankets! The sheer abundance of supplies and their willingness to use it all, is deeply satisfying.

Assuming they brought enough boxes and the truck is, in fact, big enough to hold all 18,000 pounds of your life.

But we'll circle back to that trauma later.

First comes the pre-move walkthrough.

Sometimes its over the phone. Sometimes its a form you fill out. For this move, mine was done over FaceTime, which sounds modern and convenient until you realize it's basically HGTV's Tour of Homes: The Weird Stuff Edition.

Room by room, the nice man on the other end narrated my possessions into existence. Nothing humbles you quite like hearing someone inventory your personality in real time.

“Twenty-three boxes of books…two large cat beds…decorative cow skull.”

Sir, I promise we’re less weird when spread out over 2,800 square feet.

Upstairs, I silently prayed my girls had cleaned their rooms like I'd asked.

Who was I kidding. 

Standing in one daughter's room, holding my phone out so a complete stranger could virtually inspect what looked less like a bedroom and more like a flea market managed by a family of raccoons—drawers hanging open, clothes everywhere, bed tossed, every light in the room somehow on—I offered the only explanation available.

“Teenagers. I'm sure you've seen worse…right?"

The poor man grunted politely. I choose to take that as a Yes.

Then Pack-Out Day arrives.

And suddenly, strangers are dismantling your bunk beds while you discover dust bunnies under your bed large enough to qualify for dependent IDs.

Packers are artists.

Some are Michelangelo.

Others are kindergartners struggling with the safety scissors.

We've had teams that carefully custom-built boxes around oddly shaped furniture, wrapped glassware like they were the Crown Jewels, and hung winter coats in wardrobe boxes as though they were dressing the cast of Downton Abbey.

We've also had packers who seemed genuinely surprised every time they encountered tape.

Which side is sticky? Nobody knows. We're all just asking questions.

And from the moment the packers arrive, whenever that may be (sometime between 8am and noon…maybe?) your twelve-hour shift of Constant Vigilance begins.

Because if you don't pay attention, your toilet plunger may end up packed with your silverware and your garden hose may be snuggled up with the good guest towels.

Ask me how I know.

My favorite thing to watch packers tackle is our giant beanbag chair.

It's essentially a five-foot wide marshmallow.

Two moves ago, they built a giant cardboard cylinder around it and folded the ends down like some sort of life-sized origami project.

Last move, the crew spent three days pretending not to see it.

Then, at the very end, they wrapped it in approximately seventeen miles of plastic wrap until it resembled the world's largest ball of mozzarella.

The question everyone asks is, "What do you do while strangers pack your house?"

Excellent question.

In the words of the poet Ricky Bobby: "I don't know what to do with my hands."

Sit on the couch? Feels too indulgent when half a dozen people are packing up your junk.

Make phone calls? Do I really want six strangers overhearing the latest update on Aunt Pat’s bunion surgery? No thanks.

Mostly, I hover.

Hovering is the military spouse's natural state on packing day.

I lurk near furniture with the vacuum cleaner like a NASCAR pit crew.

The second they move the couch, I'm in there like I'm trying to destroy evidence.

Hair ties.

Cat toys.

Forty-seven cents.

A Cheerio old enough to vote.

Nothing makes you question your housekeeping quite like strangers discovering ecosystems under your furniture.

I also like to wander around pretending not to panic when I see armfuls of clothing headed toward boxes marked “Garage."

Maybe that's right.

Maybe all my sweaters have always belonged in the garage.

Who can say?

And around 10:30 in the morning, I begin asking myself the most important question of the day.

Is it too early to order lunch?

Which brings us to the Great Moral Dilemma of every military move.

Technically, you are not required to feed your packers.

And I understand. Not everyone can drop a hundred bucks on Subway sandwiches and Diet Coke four days in a row.

But here's the reality: These people are touching ALL YOUR STUFF.

The blender. The Christmas ornaments. Your sock drawer. Fifty-seven cords that no longer fit anything we own.

If four large cheese pizzas and a twelve-pack of Sprite inspire just a little extra care and maybe motivate someone not to pack the bathroom trash can with the Crock Pot, that's money well spent.

Of course, the true report card on your pack-out won't arrive until days, weeks, or even months later when you're opening boxes at the next duty station.

But that's a later Phase, and we don't need to borrow tomorrow’s trouble.

For now, we simply pray to the gods of inventory sheets and high-value item forms that the truck that shows up on the last day has enough room to hold your entire life. Because there’s nothing worse than peering into the back of the 18-wheeler parked in front of your house only to see THERE’S SOMEONE ELSE’S STUFF ALREADY IN THERE. 

That's right, folks. You may not be the only family whose worldly possessions are packed into that truck.

And you won't know until moving day.

Nothing spikes your blood pressure quite like staring into the back of that trailer and realizing your entire earthly existence is about to enter into a situationship with another family from Fort Bliss.

Now, it may be obvious to you that there is absolutely no way all of that other family's stuff (Thank You for your service) plus all of your stuff is going to fit into that truck.

But the Tetris-brained movers have other plans.

They wiggle. They shove. They squint thoughtfully. One guy stands with his hands on his hips. Another disappears into the truck for twenty minutes. Someone says, "I think we got it.”

Meanwhile, you're standing on the driveway clutching your emotional support Stanley and whispering, "There's no way. There's just absolutely no way.”

And somehow, against the laws of physics and logic, they usually do.

Usually.

But every now and then, you enter the third circle of military move hell.

Because suddenly your grill and somebody else's Little Tikes playhouse are being ratchet-strapped to the OUTSIDE of the truck.

At which point even the driver has that look on his face that says, "Well, this feels like something we're all going to lie about later."

Then they slap the side of the trailer, climb into the cab, and drive off toward destiny.

And by destiny, I mean a six-lane interstate somewhere in Oklahoma where your Weber grill may or may not achieve independent flight.

After the truck finally pulls away and all that's left is an oil stain in the driveway and two empty tape rolls blowing down the street like tiny tumbleweeds, an eerie calm settles over everything.

You wander back inside one last time to make sure they didn't leave behind anything important.

A lamp.

A shoe.

One child.

Then you head to the car, where you've wisely stashed passports, jewelry, birth certificates, and seventeen phone chargers because apparently those are family heirlooms now.

And if you've been blessed with a door-to-door shipment, there is no greater adrenaline rush than trying to outrun your own belongings while tracking the AirTag you wisely stuffed into your kids’ mementos box. You'll throw your spouse, the children and pets into the car with the energy of someone fleeing a category five hurricane and begin racing your own household goods across America.

Nothing says "family road trip" like trying to beat an 18-wheeler in a 2,000 mile road race.

So to all of us PCS’ing this summer, I leave you with this blessing:

May your Packers be Skilled.

May the Boxes be Plentiful.

May your DO NOT PACK Signs be Honored.

May the Truck be Empty.

May your Shipment Travel Door-to-Door.

And may your Damages be Few.

Amen, and pass the inventory sheets.