We’re supposed to move to Sweden in a few days, but first I'll have to find the children. I can hear their muffled voices, so I think they’re probably buried beneath a laundry pile. If I start digging now, maybe everyone will turn up before the taxi comes. And maybe I’ll find our toothbrushes, too. And our passports. And the dog.

I don't know whether this is normal, because I've never gone on sabbatical before; but at some point, the packing process took a decidedly messy turn. Now, the house is a riot of clutter. Teetering stacks of it clog the hallways, and giant mounds of it block the exits. For the past week, I've been moving stuff around like a mindless ninny.

"Whose is this?" I'll ask, holding up a set of novelty teeth (or a one-eyed Beanie Baby, or an ancient sandwich). If the kids aren't buried, one of them will yell, "Mine!" Then the debate will begin. To pack or not to pack? To keep or throw away? I've been surprised to learn how many things are "too special" to abandon.

Unfortunately, the kids will not fold under questioning.

Me: "What's so special about this [random bit of crap]?"

Kid: [Batting eyelashes.] "Remember? Grandma gave it to me!"

Me: "I doubt that."

Kid: "But you can't be completely sure."

So far, the only thing we've thrown out is the sandwich.

Most things end up in the Maybe pile, although it’s unclear what the "Maybe" refers to. (“Maybe” we'll take it to Sweden. “Maybe” we'll throw it away. “Maybe” I’ll freak out and set a whole bunch of stuff on fire.) The pile contracts and expands, but the suitcases are still empty.

I think my problem is this: Sweden still sounds far away. I’m having a hard time imagining life there, and I’m wondering how we’ll change and what we’ll need.

So, the only things I’ve packed are my snow boots, but sometimes I take them out and put them in the Maybe pile. Because Maybe it won’t snow before we return to Ann Arbor, and Maybe I won’t need the boots.

Of course, Maybe it will snow a lot, and Maybe I’ll love it. [Boots go back into the suitcase.] That’s right! Maybe the me of Sweden loves snow! In that case, I’d need to pack [sorting through laundry pile] this sweatshirt! Because it’s emblazoned with the motto, “Snowflakes are kisses from heaven.”

And Maybe [digging wildly through closet], Maybe the me of Sweden is a runner! Maybe I run all the time in Sweden, and Maybe I also have awesome abs. So obviously, I’ll need to pack these sneakers. And this tank top I haven’t worn since college.

Maybe in Sweden I never get lost, so I won’t need this portable GPS [tossing GPS over shoulder]. And Maybe the Swedish me reads super-complicated books. So I’ll take Camus but not King, Derrida but not Douglas Adams.

Maybe I’ll suddenly be able to pull off outrageous fashion, so I’ll pack the earrings that horrified everyone at our last party. (“Heather,” one partygoer said, “those aren’t you.”)

And maybe in Sweden I knit. So, I’ll need to buy some knitting supplies.

Okay. What have I got so far? Let’s see. An ugly sweatshirt, a tank top that doesn’t fit, some books I won’t read, and earrings that make my head tilt to one side. Also, a distinct lack of knitting supplies.

I guess it’s all coming together. So now I’ll just find the children. [Looking in all directions at clutter.]

Maybe.

Heather Heath Chapman is a writer and a mother of two. You can reach her at heatherchapman1@me.com.