I love my house. I do not want to move. The likelihood of me staying here -33%, the financial wisdom involved in trying to make that happen -1485% But I just need to be honest. I really don't want to move. It's not that I don't realize in my brain the this house will one day fall down and all the work I put into making it a home will be irrelevant. I get all that. My house is over 200 years old so it may take longer to fall down then yours, but I still get it.
There are so many things that make me not want to move. All the work, all the identity I have spent it creating a home. That's a huge part of it. The good memories with my kids, the parties I threw for their birthdays and for just nothing at all. The walls I've battled over color choices, the times I've cried sitting on the living room floor with friends, the jars and jars of things I've made that are now stored in the basement. The craft room, ooohhh the craft room. How I'll miss you. Hmmm.
But in my weird feminine way I feel like when I leave I will be leaving part of me behind as well. Like I'll be cutting out one of my kidneys and it will remain here while the rest of me walks away. Bringing Nina home from the hospital. Planting my first official garden. Living in a neighborhood. Having the park next door, the pond in the back. Fighting long and hard to get a free swing set in the back yard for the kids. The sand box that is bigger than a full sized dump truck. Mama Tree, the one I planted in memory of all the babies I lost. To leave those things is so hard. The two sets of steps, it's weird and dumb I suppose to be attached to something that is just rock and mortar and wood put together. But somehow this house has knit itself into my heart and I've applied a little of my heart to each room as well.
People keep suggesting that starting over somewhere new will be so great because Jonathan won't be able to taint anything at our next place. I suppose that's true. But my house feels happier now. Without him in it. It doesn't feel tainted. He didn't spend that much time here anyway and when he did it was rarely with me. Maybe it's tainted, maybe not. Frankly, Alexandra (my cousin, our babysitter) has spent more time here and her presence is entirely welcome.
I feel like moving is death. A death of my hopes and dreams. A big yard with a swing set in a safe neighborhood where my kids can run up and down the streets. A death of a part of my life that I'll never resuscitate. I don't want to be married again. Uh - no, definitely not. But to have a home, one that I'm not afraid of having to leave tomorrow. To know my neighbors and what day is trash day and how to drive to all my favorite spots. To have my hands practically be able to steer my car home without any conscious effort on my part. That I'll miss. To cook in my kitchen and know where every spice and utensil is just by feel, by instinct, that I'll miss.
Don't try to con me into believing this is a happy thing. It's not for me. I'm not happy about it. I won't fake it. I don't like it. Apartment living, walk-ups and street parking are where I'm headed and I don't like it. I won't pretend.
This will all pass away. But I know in my heart my kids will remember where they grew up and I want them to look back on their youngest years with fondness. I don't want them to remember how broke we where and how we had to move every year because mommy couldn't afford the rent. I'm sad for them and for me. My heart is breaking in this one small, stupid possibly completely irrelevant area.
|Goodbye house. I'll miss you.|
I won't pretend to be happy I'm leaving you, even though all my friends who are over six foot will be really glad when they can walk through my house without ducking. ;-)