Moving With Wiener Nusstorte

I recently moved house.

I won’t burden you with the details of the move, not because they’re not interesting, but because if I’m forced to relive the hell of the past few weeks I shall end up humming and rocking to myself in a corner, renting my clothes and tearing my hair, which might frighten the children. They’ve been traumatised enough by my transformation into Scary Packing Mummy, a loud and tense creature who runs through the house frantically grabbing things off shelves, a permanent marker clenched between her teeth, and masking tape hanging from her hair.

It’s been a strange month. My husband, a devotee of all things material, suddenly announced that he was becoming a Minimalist. He claimed that he had embraced a new philosophy, that in this era of consumerism we should renounce our possessions and downgrade for the sake of the universe. (Of course, in reality he had simply got sick of packing up his clothes and decided it was easier to throw them out.) He discarded a total of eight shirts, which probably would qualify him as a Minimalist, if you ignored the 35 shirts still left hanging in his wardrobe.

I liked the idea of becoming a Minimalist, but couldn’t possibly throw out my clothes. After all, you never know when an attractive eighties style grey leather jacket with angel sleeves and padded shoulders might come back in fashion. Still, I was perfectly prepared to do a thorough cull of my other possessions.

I searched through drawers and shelves, making a pile of completely useless and redundant items that any sensible person would have relegated to the rubbish bin years ago. Sadly, however, I am not sensible.

I contemplated the 1975 Brownie Guide Handbook, the bag of old keys, the containers of baby teeth (the kids’), the separate container of wisdom teeth (mine), the five wonky handmade photo frames, and the expensive silver ring that is about three sizes too big and can’t be re-sized because – as I discovered at the jeweller’s - it’s not actually silver. I kept them all.

I then considered the broken hairbrush that had belonged to my grandmother, the hideous porcelain baby from my husband’s childhood home, and the concert program from the Young Talent Time tour of 1982. Couldn’t throw them out either.

Still, at least I could discard the dusty 1979 All Jewish Cookbook, which detailed unappetising and frankly improbable recipes for such delicacies as Liver Strudel, Pineapple Relish, Baked Prune Whip, Fried Smelts, and about 35 varieties of Tongue. But then I noticed a dish called Wiener Nusstorte – not, as one might assume, a type of frankfurt, but in fact a rather delicious looking chocolate dessert - and, well… how could I throw out something with a Wiener Nusstorte?

Happily, I still had the children’s possessions to plunder. I ploughed through their toys, discarding naked troll dolls, orphaned beads, disabled Pokemon, a stale edible chess set, six more handmade photo frames, and two evil-looking red dollies that were a recent gift from my parents. But the kids were outraged at the loss of their “precious things” (who knew mouldy chess could be so indispensable?), and my poor mother looked crestfallen upon discovering the evil red dollies in the bin when she arrived to help me pack. I decided it was all too hard, and that excessive materialism was obviously the way to go.

So I packed and I packed and eventually I unpacked too. There were funny moments, but I can’t tell you about them now. For one thing, my fingers are too exhausted to type. And for another, I don’t want to start humming and rocking.

Building Tension

On Friday we moved into our house. Finally. The house has been two long years in the building, two years that seemed endless as they passed, but which - with time and hindsight - will no doubt seem even longer.

We have been living in a delightful apartment as we build. And when I say “delightful”, I mean “if you have no children, or perhaps just one who doesn’t move very much”. When you have three children, including a crazy toddler who believes that every flat surface is a runway for her launches into space, a two bedroom apartment is kind of small. And when I say “small”, I mean “like a prison cell”.

Now, I know I should be grateful just to have had a roof over my head. And I am. We could, of course, be living in a paddock, or in a house without a ceiling (although, knowing the council as well as I do now, I suspect it would not have passed building regulations). Indeed, the ceilings in this apartment are very high, which is quite a luxury, and may even have come in handy had my family been less numerous, and more tall.

However, it hasn’t been all bad. I’ve discovered that there are definitely advantages to living in a very small space with four other people. For one thing, games of Hide and Seek are always over mercifully quickly. For another thing…. no, that’s about it, really.

Still, I must say, Little Man and Pinkela will miss being in such close proximity to each other. They have thoroughly enjoyed sharing a tiny, tiny bedroom for two years. Of course, Little Man has occasionally expressed a desire to have his own room (using “occasionally” in the sense of “several times a day”), but he does seem to take tremendous pleasure from hurling assorted toys and socks at his sister from his top bunk position after lights out every night.

The Toddler, on the other hand, will probably experience some confusion after moving to a real house. For the past two years we have put her to sleep in our room every night, only to move her to the living room cot when we’re ready for bed. She no doubt thinks that every person in the world goes to sleep in one place, and wakes up in one totally different. My suspicion is that she will wake up in her cot in the new house, think “Oh no, this is where I was put to bed, clearly it cannot be daytime yet”, and lie back down again. It may take a period of adjustment, but I am personally looking forward to a full 24 hours of sleep before she figures it out.

As for my husband, well, it shall be odd being able to get away from him when we’re both at home. For the past two years, we’ve been stuck – I mean, snuggled – together in the same room every second we’re in the apartment. Still, I’m sure that with a bit of patience and persistence we will be able to move forward as separate beings. I, for one, plan to spend every spare second alone in my study – for the sake of assisting the transition, you understand.

And if we don’t enjoy the larger space, we can always move back to a tiny, tiny apartment again. In fact, I’ve got one picked out already. It’s in NOT street, in NEVERSVILLE, in the town of IN YOUR DREAMS.

Move again? Are you KIDDING?