We did this thing where after months of puzzle pieces not fitting, months of googling things in frustration, we came down to a wire where Jack and I sat on our back deck and said “Ok, let’s.” And then I made a few calls and today we did a spit-shake, and now the calendar is smugly telling us, “Hello. You have two weeks to move. And you have to rent out your house.”
“This is out of left field!” a friend exclaimed, but it isn’t. Not really. For any of you who have dealt with weighing public schools and magnet schools and private schools and independent day schools and the mountain of paperwork that comes along with them, sometimes the most logical solution ends with “You know what? It comes with a big backyard.”
It’s a big change for us — new house, new school, new proximity to Whole Foods — and we’re simultaneously excited and panicked.
Pinterest is killing me, because when I look for “how to pack up the last several years of your lives and smoosh it into another location” it shows me lists like “What To Do Six Months Out, Four Months Out, Two Months Out.”
Listen, babe, I’ve got two weeks and a basement full of musical instruments and LEGOs. Give me the Fast Pass option. The Accelerated Route. Konmari, but a less zen, more frenetic Konmari.
“THANKS FOR SERVING ME ALL THESE YEARS!” I hastily thank my entire drawer of pretty office supplies I’ve never used as I dump it into a big donate pile.
There’s also the anxiety around being somewhere new. Will the other parents like us? Will the kids be kind? God, what if all their Spotify playlists only have techno and nothing else?
I moseyed across my front lawn barefoot last night, drink in hand, and stepped into my neighbor’s house to tell her the news. We have the best neighbors; will that streak of luck continue? Can I just … tromp into someone’s house barefoot? Pet their dog?
“So no more Neighborhood Pie Swap, huh?” my 16 year old pal slash babysitter asked.
Oh! The Neighborhood Pie Swap. We started this tradition a few years back. Every October, every year, everyone’s invited. You bring a pie, if you’d like. Jack bakes several pies — salted caramel apple, pumpkin, apple crumble; he steals first-prize ribbons from little old ladies all over town — and everyone hangs and drinks cider and hot chocolate and while we’re really the only ones our age with kids our age, our neighbors are lovely and conversation is casual and friendly we connect before we hole up in our homes for the winter, waving to each other when shoveling out from under three feet of snow.
“We brought home all our babies from the hospital here,” I cried in the living room last night, sentence structure not making sense but Jack somehow understanding all the same.
I know it’s all going to work out, and despite my moments of omg omg omg, I can more quickly get to a place of “It’ll be fiiiiiine. This is fiiiiine.” Regardless, seasoned moving veterans, I’ll take all of your advice. Currently, I’m sitting in the middle of my house staring at everything. My fourth grade artwork (that’s mine, not my children’s) is seriously judging me.
Will take your advice about renting out a house, too. I think this lit candle will really detract from the deck we do not speak of.