You know when you get something new and all you want to do it touch it and be close to it and love it?

That thing is our new house. It has its share of faults to find and fixes to make, but it’s ours, it’s blue, and it doesn’t share any walls with anyone.

I can safely say I’ve never been quite this excited by any new CDs or sheet music books.

However, we cannot touch, be close to, love and – most importantly – live in our blue house quite yet because there are still several rooms of packing in our old house standing between us and that beautiful, fulfilling moment.

It’s like Christmas. We know the gift has been bought for us. We know it’s hidden around here somewhere. We just have to get through some awful, boring time between us and the gift. The gift we bought for ourselves.

Okay, that wasn’t a great metaphor. I’m working on hour twenty-two on a 16-ounce coffee and a slice of pizza here. Cut me some slack.

We had two dalliances with the house earlier today, but we won’t be actual residents of said house for another 14 hours. Fourteen hours of packing, AKA the longest 14 hours of my life until one of us either gets pregnant or passes a gallstone.

Did I mention I shattered part of a molar on Monday night? And that I’m probably not going to sleep until our bed is located inside of our new house – again, something to the effect of 14 hours from now?

Lest you hear any further complaining from me, E’s mother just shared that when she bought her first home she was 9.5 months pregnant with E, and E’s dad inexplicably decided to bring their settlement costs with him in cash.

No amount of wrestling with change machines and broken molars and packing for 24 hours straight can top that.