How to Move With A Newborn Baby

First of all, do not.

A few months ago, I got the big idea that we should move apartments. I was incredibly pregnant, and seized by delusional can-do-ism that can only emerges after months of being showered with praise and congratulations. I had the confidence of a Heisman Trophy winner launching an eponymous energy drink. I believed myself to be immune to reality.

There's no avoiding how much moving sucks, but there's an emotional component to it when the place you're leaving is a place you loved. And I loved our last apartment.

Our old place was a dreamy little spot perched near the top of a hill among hills, on a dead-end street that must not have registered as a dead end street to at least one map application, as we'd often see stranger cars tearing up the hill as though they had outsmarted the wacky geography of Echo Park and then sheepishly backtracking down the hill a minute later, stymied by the cul de sac. We saw Dodgers World Series fireworks from our living room window, we saw Lakers NBA Championship fireworks, we saw pandemic Friday and one of the neighbor kids are bored fireworks. A splash of the intense pink of bougainvillea juxtaposed with the juicy green of the neighbor's date palm tree decorated the view from our bedroom window. The place had a gigantic front room and an enormous kitchen. Every morning, the sun poured into the east-facing windows, making it a terrible place to be hung over but a great place to be an insomniac. We lived up in the trees, among the fat city squirrels, mourning doves, aggressive hummingbirds, and the hawks that ventured up from Elysian Park to prey on them. It was the apartment we returned to after we got married, the place we weathered the pandemic, Juniper's first home.

It was not a baby friendly place. The old spot was the perfect size for two adults, a cat, and a dog, but once we started accumulating baby accessories, it became clear that we would be cramped. Josh and I both work from home, and the only room that could become a "nursey" happened to be the office. We did not have a yard; we had a back deck that was just big enough to hold a grill and the set of hand weights we bought when COVID-19 forced all of the gyms to close. The sidewalks were narrow and most were in disrepair. There was a bold coyote that hung out in the area that was not afraid of people. I long suspected that the people who lived in the building at the bottom of the hill were running an all-cash parking scheme on our street because there were no permits required and city street sweepers didn't even bother, which made parking more difficult than it should have been.

We had planned to start looking for a place when our TBD baby was starting to crawl, but then, weeks before I gave birth, we learned that a place that had all of the features our old place lacked--front hard, big flat sidewalks, no stairs, in a quieter neighborhood with fewer celebratory explosions but still in a part of the city that matched our vibe--would be opening up in mid-December.

December? I thought, Octoberly, That's years from now!

My reasoning barely made sense, even on paper. Moving with a newborn baby is a stupid choice in almost all circumstances. But, now that I've done it, I can offer the following advice to other idiots out there:

Remember to pack.

I didn't really pack. Josh had to do almost all of it, which was too much packing.

In my defense (for not packing): It's a challenge for me to get anything done with a baby around, even when I am not the one responsible for caring for the baby in that moment. Any crying sends my brain into panic mode (distracting); any cuteness or happiness immediately commands my attention (also distracting). Packing under those conditions was a big ask. I spent a total of half a day packing, which was not enough time. Come moving day, the movers ended up wrapping much of my accumulated belongings in plastic, like spiders immobilizing prey, and putting it all in the truck in a random order. This was entirely my fault.

Further, I hit a psychological brick wall. I'm already depressive despite maxing out a Zoloft prescription and living in a place that's clear and warm 90% of the time, and the idea of leaving a home that had so much significance to a formative period in my life was upsetting. I wanted to be moved but I did not want to undergo the process of moving. It's like how people who say they love traveling don't actually love the drudgery of actual travel; they just to have traveled; they don't love being on airplanes, they love being in the other places the airplanes go.

Don't do it right before Christmas

It's depressing.

Have as few belongings as possible

The main thing to know when moving-- with or without a baby-- is that the more shit you possess, the bigger the albatross it forms around your neck when you want to do anything major.

I have way too much shit. Most of it is clothes. I still own a small Rubbermaid tub of tee shirts that I do not wear and will probably never wear again, but that I can't get rid of because the old tee shirts hold sentimental value. Sentimentality is another way to describe emotional sunken cost fallacy; the fact that I have owned a Prairie Fire Children's Theater Wizard of Oz tee shirt since I played the mayor of Munchkinland in fourth grade does not grant it status as a necessity. But I treat it as though it does!

Make sure the place is ready to be moved into

Because I failed at preparing my belongings for the move, my job on moving day was to bring my elderly escape artist cat over to the new place and shut her in the back bathroom with some food and a small litter box, and then put a sign on the door that said "DO NOT ENTER" so that the movers wouldn't let her out. She's tried to escape before and came close to succeeding at least twice, so I don't take chances.

When I got there, the whole plan went sideways. There was some miscommunication with the contractors who were working at our new place, so when I arrived, it was full of building supplies and fast food bags and hooded sweatshirts, like Bob the Builder had fallen on some hard times and was squatting in a vacant bungalow in Highland Park.

They finally got cleaned up and out of there at 2 pm, but not before we paid our movers to sit there doing nothing for a couple of hours, and my cat, spooked by being confined to her carrier, peed all over my passenger seat.

Have somebody else watch the baby

There was no way I was going to be able to direct traffic with the movers and simultaneously do all of the maintenance activities that the babies require. So, once the contractors had cleaned up and the house was actually ready, I had our doula Kayleigh come over and hold the baby in the back room attached to the bathroom that the cat was locked inside. It was very spartan. All we had in there was a folding chair, diaper changing supplies, and our diaper changing pad. Kayleigh has a superhuman ability to remain calm during high-stress situations, and seemed completely unbothered by the entire proceeding.

Side note: Doulas are priceless.

Remember to unpack

Here's my new strategy for moving: I'm only going to unpack what I need. Anything that isn't unpacked in a month gets tossed.

There's no way that could go wrong, right?

Image via shutterstock