Hundred and Sixty Seven

Hundred and Sixty Seven
If anyone ever tells you moving is “fun,” they’re lying.

It was just so much chaos. I don’t think Declan and I had ever fought like this. 

Boxes everywhere. Tape dispensers disappearing. We had bought so many and they were all gone. Noah using the bubble wrap as a personal trampoline while Declan tried to enforce order. And me? I was somewhere between laughter and tears, holding a half-packed box labeled “KITCHEN – DO NOT LOSE”  that already had three stuffed animals inside it.

“Willow,” Declan said from the doorway, hands on his hips like a general surveying his soldiers. “This is… not organized.”

I stared at him. “We’re moving my entire life into your house. Of course it’s not organized.”

“It could be.” He pointed at the boxes. “These aren’t even labeled properly.”

“They are!” I turned one so he could see my handwriting. ‘Random Stuff’ that box said. 

He dragged a hand over his face. “That is not a label, Willow.”

Noah popped up from behind the couch, wearing the bubble wrap like a superhero cape. “I’m Bubble Boy!” he shouted, running across the room and nearly colliding with the box tower.

Declan lunged and caught it just before it toppled. “For the love of…Noah, please, just… sit. Somewhere. Anywhere.”

Noah cackled and took off again, cape flapping.

I plopped down on the floor and laughed until my sides hurt. “This is what you signed up for,” I reminded Declan.

His eyes met mine, and for a second his exasperation softened into something warm. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

__________

Declan had created a spreadsheet. A color-coded spreadsheet.

“Noah’s toys go in the green-coded boxes,” he explained as if we were in a corporate meeting. “Books are blue. Kitchen is yellow. Clothes are orange. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said. “Completely ignoring that system.”

He gave me a look, half stern, half amused. “Willow.”

“What? Some of my best decisions in life came without color coding.”

“Like what?”

“You.”

That shut him up, though his ears went pink.

Noah, of course, sided with me. “I don’t want colors. I want all my toys in the same box as Mommy’s clothes.”

Declan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why would you, “He sighed, “Never mind. Fine. One random box.”

“Two random boxes!” Noah corrected.

By the end of the day, Declan looked like he’d aged ten years, Noah was passed out on a pile of blankets in the middle of the living room, and I was sitting cross-legged next to him, sipping my iced coffee and trying not to cry from exhaustion.

Declan dropped down beside me, stretching out his long legs with a groan. “This is worse than anything I’ve ever done. How is this more difficult than my PhD thesis?”

I laughed softly, leaning my head against his shoulder. “At least your thesis didn’t involve stepping on Legos.”

He winced at the memory. “Don’t remind me.”

In the end, the move itself was… an event.

Declan had hired professional movers, but Noah insisted on “helping,” which meant carrying one shoebox at a time to the truck and demanding a reward for every trip.

At one point, he tried to climb into the moving van with his bubble-wrap cape, shouting, “I’m protecting the boxes from bandits!”

Declan had to bribe him back out with a juice box.

By the time we arrived at Declan’s house, the movers looked ready to quit humanity entirely.

Declan hovered nervously as they unloaded. “Careful with that. That’s fragile. No, no, not that corner, the other…”

“Declan,” I interrupted, tugging him back by the sleeve. “Let them do their job.”

“They’re not doing it right.”

“They’re literally professionals.”

“I’m supervising.”

“You’re being a pain,” I corrected, grinning.

He sighed but allowed himself to be dragged back toward the kitchen. “This is my house. I like things done properly.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Correction: this is our house now. Which means you’re going to have to get used to my version of proper.”

His gaze softened as he leaned down to kiss me quickly, right there in that mess. “God help me,” he murmured, smiling against my lips.

Unpacking was another adventure.

Noah opened every box like it was a gift on Christmas morning. “Mommy, look! My soccer shoes! Declan, look! My dinosaur shirt! Mommy, look! This is… um… what is this?”

“That’s a garlic press,” I said.

He wore it as a hat for the next ten minutes.

Declan walked in, took one look at Noah’s garlic press crown, and muttered, “I need a drink.”

But then I caught him later, sitting on the floor with Noah, showing him how to set up the bookshelf. And when Noah declared, “This shelf is for dinosaurs only!” Declan didn’t argue. He just nodded solemnly and started lining up plastic T-Rexes.

I stood in the doorway, watching them, my chest swelling with something that felt too big to name.

Exhausted. Overwhelmed. Grateful.

This was home now.

By nightfall, there were pizza boxes on the counter, empty Diet Coke cans in the sink, and still half a dozen unopened boxes stacked against the wall.

Noah was sprawled across the couch, bubble-wrap cape still tied around his shoulders, holding a slice of pizza half-eaten in his hand as he drifted off to sleep.

Declan scooped him up, careful not to wake him, and carried him upstairs. He returned a few minutes later, looking down at me with a tired but content smile.

“Still think this was a mistake?” he asked, settling beside me.

I shook my head and smiled at him. “No. Not for a second.”

We sat there in silence, surrounded by boxes and crumbs, wrapped in the quiet hum of our new life together.

Messy. Imperfect. Ours.

Our home.