Let me just tell you that I truly hate packing. Whether it's a suitcase for a short trip or just reloading the diaper bag. But truly, the worst of it all has to be packing for a move. I detest it so much that I try to do as little of it as possible. I'm trying to talk Hubs into believing that we are suddenly rich and we should just hire professional movers to come and pack us up. He's having none of it though. No sirree, not my man. My man is way to manly to let someone else come in and pack up our prized possessions (and I use that term very loosely). Nope, my man wants us to pack ourselves up and then he wants to move us himself.
My manly man is out to kill me with packing. I did the very least packing I could possibly do during the day. You see in my world, tiny little elves, fairies or gnomes (I'm really not sure) come to pack up all our stuff while we sleep. So when Hubs gets home from work I proudly show him my two boxes of packed items. Hubs loves me to much to really tell me what he thinks of my two boxes but I can see it in his eyes. But I am not to get off that easy. No, not me. My sweet manly man starts to pack after he has been working all day. Then naturally I feel guilty so I start to help. During all this late night packing my four wild indian children are running around like crazy. Meanwhile I keep trying to convince him that really we should hire movers, all to no avail. So I keep on packing.
And just in case you don't know it... Packing Stinks.