I sliced open the tape of the last moving box to reveal its contents. There, wrapped ever so gently, was a bunch of shit I didn’t really care about and could live without. “I don’t even remember owning this.” I thought to myself. I was so done with unpacking. But this was kind of it.

I always appreciate the optimism I feel when moving into a new house. How organized my drawers and cupboards are going to be. But by hour six I am throwing things where ever it will fit. My favourite part is drinking while unpacking so I get to play a fun game of ‘where the fuck is it’ the next day.

As much as I think fate is never on my side, I was very pleased with the timing of our move. We took possession of our new house in the middle of August which left me enough time to get settled in before school and work started. It left time to make a different house feel like home. A different address to drill into my kids heads in case they ever get lost. Meanwhile, I’m drilling my new postal code into my brain because Amazon packages aren’t going to find me themselves.

One week into our new normal I was feeling rather accomplished. Fate must have heard my thoughts- the ones that had me believing I was doing a decent job adjusting. I had an entire list of errands that needed to be ran and so with that began the disaster of getting all three kids ready to leave the house. After fighting to get shoes on two out of three of them, I ran back upstairs to swipe some more deodorant on my pits. If someone would have warned me about the hellish shoe struggle with children before I had kids, my kids to cats ratio would look a lot different.

I looked down at my oldest son to make sure he accomplished this simple yet strenuous task while I was busy wrestling my other two children’s feet. There on his left foot was his high top Converse sneaker. On his right, a Nike slide on sandal. I stared for a moment before slowly looking up to make eye contact with him. “Perfect. Let’s go.” I said.

On my way into the garage, I banged my fist on the button to open the overhead door. I got the boys strapped into their seats and walked around the front of the SUV to put my daughter in on the other side. In the millisecond it took to close the back door and open mine to get in, a fight had broke out. I put the vehicle in reverse and slowly started to back out while simultaneously yelling over my children that I cannot listen to anymore of their bickering. I was inches out of my parking spot and already willing to ‘turn the car around’ if they didn’t cut it out. As it turns out, the decision was made for us.

A loud crunch rang through the vehicle. I immediately felt all the blood drain from my face. A little voice from the backseat pipes up and says “I think we need a mechanic…”

In my state of shock, I don’t respond but I know I don’t need the two cents from the peanut gallery in the back seat, especially from the smart ass wearing two different shoes.

With my heart pounding I get out to see the damage and figure out exactly what had happened. Little to my knowledge (obviously) the garage door had only opened halfway. I busted the door completely out of the frame. I did a painful turn, either due to whiplash or the thought of having to call my husband and tell him, to see the back of our SUV scratched to hell.

I got the kids unloaded seeing as how we were now trapped inside the garage. The errands would have to wait. Forever. Because I am never driving again. I had nothing to do but sit in my self loathing so I decided to call my mom and cry.

She felt bad for me which is great because that is all I wanted anyone to feel for me. If she didn’t I was going to hang up and call someone else. My mom told me it happens all the time, especially to her. Like the time she crashed into their garage wall.

It was the great flood of 2011. Water had completely surrounded my parents home where a dyke had been built to try and keep it away from the house. The water was so high my family was boating to and from their home as that was the only way of reaching it. My parents purchased an Argo so they could get through the water, drive over the dyke and into the house.

Jeremie and I were newly dating at the time when we went to visit. After a night out at the bar, boating across their new lakefront property, Mom and Jer decided to rock paper scissors over who got to drive the Argo over the dyke. Mom won to Jer’s dismay. As she floors it to get over the steep hill of sandbags, we cruise directly into the open garage, across it, and lodge ourselves right into the wall on the other side where we quietly sit for what felt like forever.

“I wish you would have won rock paper scissors…” Mom says breaking the silence. Right then Jer bursts out laughing. I had to smack him to shut up because my Dad was NOT happy. His laughter didn’t stop and my Dad hasn’t liked him since.

I thought reminicsing on this story would make me feel better. It was funny when someone else crashed into things but I realized I didn’t care to be put in the same bad drivers club as Mom had been a part of for years. Now look at us. Two stooges with angry husbands. Like mother like daughter.

After a day or two of being angry and accepting that accidents happen, even if it is a brand new house, we got to work on fixing the problem. We were quoted how much it would be to fix everything, minus my pride because you can’t fix that. It was looking like I was going to be buying a new garage door and paint job instead of the fancy sideboard I wanted for my kitchen. Unhappy with this, I have decided I need to pay for a pedicure. From a business perspective I know you have to spend money to make money and I will officially be selling pictures of my feet online because I want that God damn sideboard.

It’s been a few weeks since the incident. In that time I have been getting to know my new neighbours. I’m sure they are only pleased to meet me so they can ask me what happened because unfortunately, a mangled garage door is obvious to the eye. So with my best attempt at making a good first impression since this is my one shot, I obviously tell them my husband did it.

Long story short: We need to move… Again.