Today I moved all the little white boxes. All of them! They've been stacked in the computer room, soon to be the baby room, in a blue bookcase, since the beginning of time. Okay, that's inaccurate. We've only owned this house for two years, and of course the boxes weren't there before then. Also, I've had to move them and replace them twice in the past two years, because the blue bookcase partially blocks the doorway, and whenever we have to move something large into or out of the room, the blue bookcase has to go.
I don't know if my husband knows I did that. At least one of the times, he wasn't home. I can't remember about the second time.
So now the little white boxes are stacked in 12 or so stacks all along the dining room wall, still more or less in alphabetic order (an amazing feat, thank you very much!), and the blue bookcase is ready to be moved. Once it is moved, other large items can enter and/or exit the room. Like Great-Aunt Mary's genuine oak dresser and bureau. Yeah, my kid's getting the good stuff. No particle-board bedroom furniture for him.
So... while I was trekking back and forth, back and forth,back and forth, between the bedroom and the dining room, Melody, who had been peacefully minding her own business on the Oriental rug (as opposed to doing her business on the Oriental rug, something we actively discourage) decided that she suddenly needed to beg for attention. Melody is the disabled cat. She stumbles more than walks, and when she gets where she's going, she flops onto her side in the middle of whatever open space she can find. As I was crossing the entire house repeatedly, there wasn't any open space that wasn't in my way.
"Meow?" she said as I rushed by with 3 small but heavy white boxes balanced in my arms.
"Get out of my way, dumb cat," I suggested to her, giving her tail a nudge with my foot (which wasn't that hard - the hard part would have been avoiding her tail entirely).
"Yeoww!" she said, and scrambled to her feet, such as it were, to beat as hasty a retreat as she is capable of beating. Which usually involves her backing even further into my path before she succeeds in gaining some forward motion.
Halfway through the great white box transfer, I broke for dinner. And then when I got back to my task... that cat did it again!
So I nudged her again, and she skittered off again. Now I'm trying to make it up to her by holding her in my lap as I type this blog entry. Unfortunately, it's very hard to type this way.
Multiply that by 10 and we'll have life with a toddler. But without the nudging option.
I'm ready, though. I think. Oh well, it doesn't matter what I think about how ready I am, because that's how it's going to be.