Trappings

I stayed home from church today. D hauled the kids off to Sunday School and 10:30 worship. I stayed home to "finish" the basement. The packing, that is.

Throughout this whole process, and even as we've anticipated packing and moving over the past several years, I've warned D not to be too sentimental. "Do you really need to save that?" That box of photos, that folder of certificates, those cards from friends... How quickly I had forgotten that my own box of "do you need to save that"'s was downstairs. I just haven't looked at them in quite some time. Photos from friends' weddings. A varsity letter from marching band. Embarrassing photos from high school dances. Photos of relatives no longer living. Letters from parents when I was a freshman in college. Notes from roommates.

To be honest, I'm glad I was here by myself and could take the time to look through these things. As I picked and chose through which things to keep, I became aware that those things that are truly mine - all mine and no one else's in this house - can now neatly fit into one moving box. When I moved here nine years ago this week, I brought all sorts of things that seemed so important. Box after box of "stuff." And now, it's down to one box. It seems strange. So much of me is poured out into being a wife and a mother and a teacher...that those things that remind me of my life before those roles have dwindled into just a few precious possessions and memories.

I can't help but think that after I tape up "my" box of special items, no one will ever see the things inside until that time comes when we move again. And since we have no intention of moving until A & J are on their own, my treasures will stay hidden for years to come. I wonder what they will mean to whoever opens them up years and years from now.

The Deal...

...she is done. And this will be our home in just 30 days.


Yes, after looking at house after house for the better part of the 9 years we’ve been married, we finally found one that we love...and today it is ours!! Well, sort of ours. Mostly the bank’s, but a little bit ours.

It’s almost a little hard to contemplate. And truth be told, I am just beginning to get a little sad about leaving our house. It is, after all, the place where we brought the two babies home. It’s the last house D’s dad knew us to live in. It’s the house that saw us through a master’s degree and a traumatic pregnancy. It’s where we had our fun double-income-no-kids time before the kids entered the picture. It’s the bachelor house D bought before he ever knew me. It’s our starter home. It’s where we began to figure things out.

As much as I don’t like to admit it, I want a home I can be proud of. I want a big kitchen. I want my kids to have a playroom and a big yard. I want to stop dragging bags of groceries up flights of steps from the curb. And for all of that wanting, I don’t want our home to be anything but warm and welcoming and a place where our family and friends know they can come and relax and be loved and be comfortable. I want more than anything to create that. And for the first time (really), I see how our hard work and devotion to things that we love doing is allowing us the ability to provide this place for our children and families.

And so we move ahead...figuratively and quite literally. We take possession in a few weeks and plan to officially move in and make this our home just after Christmas. In the meantime we pack and sort and purge and cleanse and look forward to one more holiday in our big old house. A house we have loved and filled with memories. A house we have been blessed to outgrow.

Puppy Prozac

Well, great.

The dog is apparently suffering from “separation anxiety,” which according to the vet is not all that uncommon for a “high-strung” breed like the Airedale. The kids never even went through any significant periods of separation anxiety.

And now we’re going to have a dog on Prozac.

I mean seriously. What does she have to be stressed about? Her job doesn’t involve meeting state and federal guidelines or saving lives. She is not responsible for any other being (animal, human, or otherwise). She is fed and watered without asking. She is allowed to sleep in the largest portion of the king-size bed. She doesn’t have to drive, pay taxes, or clean toilets. She can sleep the whole freaking day away if she so chooses.

But noooooooo. Now we have a 50-pound terrier with a canine psychological complex. Just as we’re heading into the holidays and getting ready to move. So whatever. But if she doesn’t get herself straightened out, she best keep an eye on her happy pills. Or the mama may just be sneaking some.