May 25, 2007
TJ and I woke up bright and early. I had bronchitis; we were both exhausted from packing up our entire apartment into water and egg boxes. But we were giddy.
We went down the 16 floors to the lobby of our building; we ran out the doors; we got into the car, and there was a flat tire. We weren’t sure if TJ’s car could make it all the way to our destination 45 minutes away, but we had no choice but to try.
Because that day, we were buying our first house.
We got to our new house site, and we did a last minute inspection as the cleaning people were doing their last go around and the contractors were putting in the last of the smoke detectors. Then we headed off to sign ourselves into home ownership.
Everyone warns you about all the paperwork involved with buying a house, so maybe I just had overblown expectations, but it all seemed relatively simple. Sign this. Sign that. Here’s your water cooler with the builder’s signature on the side, and here are your keys.
And then we walked out, and we were home owners.
And were we excited. We came back to our new house even though it was totally out of the way, and we walked through it, just to feel it. To experience it. To claim our little piece of America. Then we went back to grab all of those boxes and make ourselves at home.
Now, it feels like a lifetime ago. There were only two of us back then. Two of us and a cat. We had so many hopes.
And honestly, hopes and dreams were about all we had.
We didn’t have enough furniture to fill the three bedrooms. We surely didn’t have enough people to fill the three bedrooms. But we knew what we wanted, and we were on our way.
A lot has happened in this house. Right now I am looking at the stairs I almost fell down as I raced from my bedroom downstairs to tell TJ that we were finally pregnant. Right in front of me is the place where I handed him the test and we cried. To the right is where he was sitting when I told him we were pregnant with Goose. He didn’t believe me. The line was too faint, he said. I knew better. And upstairs is the room I ran into to tell him about little Mae. Neither of us could believe that one. It seemed way too easy.
Magoo took her first steps right over there where the tarp is hanging now separating our living room from the flood damaged dining room. Right over where the vacuum is standing is where Goosie starts her warm up when she runs across the room to give TJ a “really really really big hug.” Right here is where I have spent hours rocking and snuggling and loving on baby Mae. She started to cruise for the first time right around the ottoman that is near my feet.
And I was doing okay with all of this. This has been a move we have wanted for years. (Many, many years.) This house doesn’t work for us. The drive is too long to Magoo’s school, and there are no closer viable Catholic schools. The commute for TJ is much too far. There are rodent problems and plumbing problems and insulation problems and association problems. There is no basement for storms; the neighborhood is far too gone on the wrong side of sketchy. There’s no room to grow or expand or stretch out or spread our arms.
We are ready. We’ve been ready for a long time. And as I sit here on the eve of the next step in our journey, I am overcome with relief and excitement and awe. We are finally starting the next phase of our journey. We are moving forward. We are free.
But then I went to go put Mae to bed tonight. She’s been having a rough few days. I laid down in my bed with her, and I fed her, and I sang to her. She was asleep, but still, I laid there and sang to her for just a little bit more. Because I have sang three kids to sleep in that room, and tonight was the last night.
The closer we get to moving, the more I learn that places are special. Any time we drive past this house and any time I think of this house, I will think of it with fondness. It was the nest I created my family in.
But a place is also just a place. It’s the back drop to our memories, but it does not hold them. Our hearts hold them.
And so when we hand over the keys to the new owners on Saturday, I am sure I will have a few tears in my heart.
A major part of our story was written here. Parts that can’t be rewritten. Parts I would never want to be rewritten. My great act two took place here.
But when we get in our car and drive away, I have a feeling the tears will be tears of joy and excitement and anticipation. Because as great as our life was here, I’m looking forward to even better as we move forward and up and on.
So farewell to my little townhouse in the cornfields. We will remember you fondly.
Well, except for this last week. Because that part sucked!
