Chaaaaaaange is Scaaaaaaaary

I am living in someone else’s house now.

 

That’s what it feels like, anyway.  This is a small house, one sans closets, with walls made out of cardboard and crap carpets and a tiny washer/dryer that runs 24/7 to keep up with the diapers.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve performed the complicated furniture shuffle that it takes to move a chair from one room to another (ok, first I have to scooch the desk an inch so it will fit, and then put the trash can over there, and then move the dog bed so the door will open all the way, and now I have to pick up this lamp and put it on the floor so I don’t knock it over . . . etc.)  It can often be infuriating to live here.  And when people come to visit?  Don’t even get me started on sharing the bathroom.

 

But.

 

I bought this house as a single woman.  It’s the threshold over which my new husband carried me – er, well, not really, but you get me?  I have video of us carrying our new son through the front door.  We put in the fence, the deck, the new kitchen countertops, painted, scrubbed, organized, found ways to work within the cramped confines of its tiny rooms.  I am proud of what we’ve done here, proud of the life we’ve made.  And now I am selling it to someone else, and it isn’t ours anymore.

 

I’m scaaaaaaaared!  Waaaaaaah!  I don’t wanna move anymooooooooore!  My backyard, and the shed, and we love our neighbors, and the band, and the (hitching sob) frieeeeeeends!  My siiiiiiiiister!  How can I live without my sister?

 

I’m supposed to be weaning Jack off of his bottles and onto just cups, but instead I’m tempted to join him – maybe he’d let me borrow a couple for my morning coffee.  He has a binkit he carries everywhere, and I may have to start carrying it to work with me.  I want my mommy.