This post is one of those screaming posts. It is too early/late to call anyone in the U.S. thus my poor blog is the victim of my ranting and panics. The panic as of late: moving, again.
This is our fourth move in one year. Fourth (Manila, Park City, Arlington, Brussels house #1). None of them have been pretty, all of them have brought me to tears at one point, but I admittedly confess they could be worse. For example, the DOS has been kind enough to hire movers and packers the day of the move. That doesn't change the five days prior to the move where I was making piles of junk and running around like a zombie mom. However, the day of the move is usually the least stressful because I just need to watch the movers come and pack and take away the fruits of my labor.
Some of you may remember when we came to Brussels we were put in temporary housing. We were expecting to be here for two months but the word on the pipeline is we are out of here as of next Friday. Hooray! A light at the end of this state of year long temporary tunnel. A home to call my own for 22 months.
But no journey is without trouble, certainly not when your life is controlled by a giant bureaucracy. A giant bureaucracy that is even bigger here because it serves three missions and THOUSANDS (plural) of U.S. government/military families.
So I suppose I shouldn't have broken down into tears (yes, again) when I was informed that I had to box up my own UAB and have my temporary home in tip top shape. And since they gave us all of a week's notice of the move (we called them, they didn't call us) it isn't like Seth is able to take off gobs of time to help me.
Which leaves me, Sunny, your hero, alone, to somehow watch a two year old, four year old, box up 1100 pounds of our belongings alone (without any tissue or packing materials or tape, only boxes). And somehow in the middle of having my little ones at my feet and all of my worldly possessions boxed up I am going to pull out my magical broom from you know where and clean our temporary apartment to a Marriott standard of living. You know, because I have a vacuum (oh, wait I don't) and all of my cleaning supplies (hmmm, nope don't have that. Does Windex count?) Nevermind that they have a make-ready team that comes and cleans after me to get it ready. If it isn't clean enough, we are fined.
So who do I make the check out to?
I know my blog has been viewed before by folks at Main State with appreciation and criticism for talking about these sort of issues. This time, I hope they are reading (and lets put a disclaimer here, this is the non-employee talking not the employee). The family takes on a huge burden by giving up everything to follow the spouse and organizing these moves. However, it is not right to make them pick up the slack for their inability to get us into our housing in a timely manner. I don't mind temporary housing but I do mind having to do the packing myself to get into the permanent home. And I also mind the expectation that I have to do a move-out standard checkout twice, because the year and a half notice that we we gave them of our arrival wasn't enough time for them to work out a place for us to move to.
So... for those who think the developed world is all chocolate and castles please note there is always a flip side.