We are endlessly grateful for every one of these big changes happening right now, and I remain humbled to have a happy baby, healthy pregnancy thus far, wonderful husband and our new home. But in the midst of all the chaos, I was reminded of this one thing: transitions are tough.
It may be already apparent that I am not a graceful transitioner. Rather, it seems I prefer to let things devolve into a decent state of chaos so that I can put them away in a more orderly fashion on the other end. Exhibit A: my car. During the move and renovation period, we lived in the car, which on some days doubled as my playpen at the new house while I ran in quickly to deliver a new paint sample or offer my opinion on wainscoting stair transitions or banquette trims (I realize this isn't a stellar parenting move, but the car was running with cool A/C and the dust and fumes are not exactly baby-friendly. And of course, I wore a mask to keep baby dos protected too). This means my car became an eclectic bomb of my loudest, most interactive toys, paint chip samples, at times clothes (because we were living at my wonderful Mom's for the week and I continued to realize I didn't pack enough), water bottles, cheddar bunnies, boxes of light fixtures or door hardware, pregnancy information pamphlets from the doctor and all manner of other delights. Lacking the time or energy to care (and honestly, without a permanent home for most of it at the time) I adopted an "I'll deal with it when this is over" mentality and thus my car has become a great symbol our ungraceful transition. Come have a look sometime, I dare you.
It's over now, and I will never ever do that again pregnant. Mark my words. Ever. It was one billion blazing degrees and I admit that I most certainly overdid it. My wonderful, amazing husband took on the brunt of the labor and what I did almost did me in - by Labor Day (appropriately named) I couldn't move, literally, so Miller had to tie up the little loose ends at the house without me. I've been picking up a good amount of slack on the unpacking end though; we are a good team that way. He was a machine through that ugly week (also, by the way, his birthday and our actual anniversary) and I remain so grateful that I married him five years ago.
Here he is taking down the little red swing. In addition to hanging from a tree, he was also saddled with reassuring me it would be just as wonderful at the new house while I watched on unhelpfully and boo-hooed.
So, yes, it turns out, did I not realize how emotional and almost traumatizing it would be to leave our little house. I'm sure hormones are partly to blame, but in between loads I would spontaneously burst into tears over our home that, box by box, slowly became just a rent house again. We had made it our own over the last 3.5 years, and once Eliza was born, I spent the majority of my days with our baby in this little home. It became very empty when the furniture was gone, but everywhere I looked I could still see memories - the two of us opening the box on Christmas morning, to discover we were having a girl; sweet giggly bathtimes; bouncing around the nursery to get my fussy baby to sleep; tummy time on the living room floor; E in a fast crawl through the dining room to bang a happy greeting to Dada in the evenings; the first time he walked through the door to see his baby girl walking on her own.
Seeing flashes of our very happy life there in the empty rooms was honestly almost too much for this hormonal lady to bear. Even with all the good things ahead, I am still working on turning the page. Settling into our new house has helped immensely, which is why I immediately prioritized setting up the nursery hutch and hanging the red swing over much larger and more pressing tasks. I just needed it to feel like ours.
And, bit by bit, it does, as we begin to make new memories of rock collecting on the patio, snuggly morning playtimes, and awaking the first morning to discover that we are now the proud owners of a killer sunrise view.
And that little red swing? It already sees so much more action than it ever did at the old house. I have to admit, dear husband, when you're right, you're right.
On the day we handed off the keys, we took Eliza to the empty house to say goodbye. Unfazed by her empty nursery, she toddled over to a book that had been uncovered when the glider was moved and started chattering excitedly. If she was confused, or unsettled by this entire process (a trip to Colorado, moving in with my mom four days later, and then moving into a strange new house), she didn't really let on. And she loves her new house - there is so much more room to explore and play indoors and out. She hasn't missed a beat, really - if only we could all transition as gracefully as a one-year-old!
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