Movin’ on Up (that is, if I can move on off the couch)
Well, we got the house.
|*Not an actual representation of the new house.|
Same neighborhood, same square-footage, different house.
We’re happy about it. We really are. But if I don’t sound excited about it, it’s because I’m not necessarily excited about it. At least, not right now.
My assumption is that stress is overtaking the part of the brain that registers excitement. And as anyone who has moved knows, there is plenty to be stressed about.
I’m not even going to bother getting into the money part. It’s too obvious. Because, you know, I’m not working anymore, and somehow I’m spending $75 at the grocery store four times a week, and Noah has grown out of all of last year’s clothes and shoes, and the list of things we’ll need to pay for keeps growing. Instead, I’m going to focus on my difficulty with decision making and change. Even though in theory I like change, I don’t tend to deal with it well, at least not at first.
I’m sure my friend Jamie over at the Center for Advanced Hindsight (yes, that’s a real thing) could give me the official terms for all the irrational things I’ve done since we signed the contract, like falling in love anew with our current house, even – or especially – the things I was complaining about just a month ago (e.g., the noise from the pool next door, which now seems soothing; the traffic on the street, which now feels “urban”). Or my extreme fixation on the small things I find wrong with the other house (the distance between the kitchen island and the stove, the noise the bathtub makes while draining).
And moving is so much work. I am basically in denial that we are closing in 11 days, and will be living there by the end of the month. That is, assuming I take the steps required to actually make that happen.
I’ve started taking these steps, albeit haphazardly. A couple weeks ago, Pat and I sat on the porch and drank beer and made a list of all the things we need to do for the move. I lost the list. When my sister was here, I gave her some baby clothes we’re done with, and bagged up others for expecting friends. I did a ruthless purge of my own closet and some of the kitchen cabinets. All the bags are in the back of my car awaiting drop-off at Goodwill. But I know that does not even scratch the surface.
Did I mention Pat is working from home for the next three months? So now one of my daily activities with the kids is playing “keep away” from him. Naturally, Noah is constantly collapsing on the stairs with a dramatic soliloquy about why he must speak with Dad immediately, and then Rory follows suit with his crazy Tarzan scream: “Dadadadadada!!” It’s a particularly busy time for Pat (he’s a software developer; they’re launching the latest version of the thing he builds), so work extends from the minute he wakes up until well into the night.
Since he’s busy, I like to make myself feel productive by walking by him and making comments like:
“Gotta figure out what we’re gonna do about painting.”
“So are we canceling cable, or what?”
“Guess we should pick a day for the movers to come.”
“Are we watching Downton Abbey tonight?”
Ugghhh. I could start boxing up things like the china that my mom insisted I register for and we use once a year. But then what do I do with that box? Have it sit there in the dining room for Rory to crash into like a battering ram with his ride-on Thomas the Train?
Help. Somebody, just tell me what to do first. Or tell me to go watch another episode of Downton. Just don’t tell me if Mary and Matthew end up together, okay? We’re only in season two.