9 minutes away, that is. But still, if you’ve read my memoir, moving houses is a big deal for me. It usually is for all of us. I’ll be dedicating my next several blog posts to the process of moving to a new house in Austin with my little family.
I can say in total honesty that in the last three days I have cleaned nearly every inch of my house. Inches I have avoided cleaning. Dusting the legs of the nightstand and the two inch shaft between the wall and the fridge. Vacuuming with the skinny attachment on, reaching all the way back under my son’s bed. This kind of cleaning feels like time traveling to the past. The vacuum sucks up toys we’d given up finding years ago.
Years ago…8 years ago we bought this little house. No kids, not even a dog yet. The house felt spacious yet cozy. Now it feels cramped and smells vaguely of soiled diapers.
Yesterday, once the kids were in bed for the night, B. and I recaulked the bathtubs, patched up nicks on the walls with fresh paint and restained the patio. I didn’t get in bed till well after midnight. My hands were raw from cleaning products and marked with stain and paint.
But it felt like the right work to do. (When I’m trying to process feelings into words, the most direct route is through physical labor of some sort.)
This I know: It will not be easy for me to leave this little house. Just because we’ve found something bigger and better, it will hurt to say goodbye.
I picture the last time I’ll open the front door and walk out of this house. The thought catches in my throat.
Twice, at nine months pregnant, I’ve hobbled out our front door with empty arms and have returned home with a newborn baby. I’ve brought both my children through this front door.
As I sat in my front hallway patching the walls with paint, I saw our shabby front door with new eyes. Every inch of a house tells a story. And I love to write stories…