Home is a State of Mind

I've been out of touch for a while on matters home-related, so here's the update: as of July 31, the title of this blog will be rendered inaccurate. Details on the new title have yet to be determined. This is a situation that is causing more than a tiny bit of stress in our otherwise blessed life.

And I do mean blessed. Andres is gearing up for kindergarten in a few months. Celia talks more every day (ok…so it's a mixed blessing) and seems to be excited about becoming a big sister in the fall. The jury is still out on what kind of an influence she will be. We also just managed an enjoyable car buying experience, going from a perfect-for-two-kids Outback Sport to its more stately older sibling, the full-sized Outback (clincher: it is able to hold 3 carseats simultaneously). It's been 24 hours since we signed the papers and no trace of buyer's remorse is to be found. (To be fair, I learned some things from buying my CR-V in 2009; a car I grudingly tolerate.)

No, the only thing that is not going well is the search for a new home. But this task is so large and so emotional that not knowing where we are going to lay our heads on August 1 is beginning to take a toll on all of us.

Now that he is 5, Andres is entering full boyhood. I am finding that this stage is defined by a lot of butt-related jokes and rambunctious play from time to time. All to be expected. The past couple days I feel like he has been more rowdy than normal, so I asked him today if he was worried about moving. He said no.

"Will you miss this place?" I asked.
"No, I already don't miss it," came the reply.

I was a bit surprised. I had assumed that this phase would be at least mildly troubling for him, since he and Celia were witnesses to the whole pack-up-all-your-toys-and-put-in-storage-so-we-can-sell process, followed soon after by the hop-in-the-car-so-we-can-see-new-our-new-house-(maybe) phase. Either he doesn't care as much as I think he should care or he's genuinely better adjusted than I am. Or, perhaps, he's just 5, and this will hit him for real in August.

Then he asked if I would miss Turner St. I said I would; I told him how we had moved in before he and Celia were born, and that Natalia and I have a lot of memories here. "Back when we moved here, we didn't know what to do with your room!" I said. "We didn't have you and Celia yet, so we had a whole extra room we could use." He looked at me like he was unable to comprehend a time before his room was actually his.

Certainly, Turner St holds a number of memories, and Natalia and I are the chief memory-holders. I've written before about how I already miss this place--a feeling that is romanticised, no doubt, by the fact that we have outgrown the two small bedrooms and need to move. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Does necessary relocation makes the heart grow more nostalgic? It seems so.

But as our destination is still unclear, late June and early July have not given us the mental break that the end of the school year typically provides. It's hard to enjoy each day with the July 31 deadline looming.

Here's a story: we met some friends at Duxbury beach this past Sunday, a blistering hot day up here. None of us minded the frigid water too much as it provided a soothing respite from the heat--even Celia and Andres were content to jump in (in between drinking juiceboxes and building sandcastles, of course). It was a perfect day. And then, around 3 pm, a deep charcoal cloud appeared in the distance. It slowly floated towards us. Though no rain fell until about 30 minutes later, the mere sight of that cloud signalled the imminent end of our time on the beach. The water seemed less comforting. The day seemed less perfect.

June and July seem to have a charcoal cloud in the distance too. And no matter how many places we see or realtors we talk to, the cloud seems to be advancing at a pace too fast for our liking.

We've been pretending the cloud isn't there by blithely continuing to live in our home as we have for the past 7 years. But though we are still physically living here, I think we have already begun mentally detaching ourselves from Turner St. Boxes are slowly filling up. Yardwork is going undone, and neighborhood issues are of little concern now. Finding a new home, a worthy replacement for here, is what we are entirely focused on.

And since that is our focus, home doesn't really feel like Home anymore. We are now in the transitional phase between Here and Somewhere Else (currently undefined). We've already made our memories here; making new ones feels like cramming for a year-end exam. It will be a nostalgic final month on Turner St.

So that's the situation. I predict that I will largely ignore this blog for the next month as I try to deal with everything I outlined above, but I hope to return soon after August 1 with a more positive post. After all, by then we will be living somewhere, somewhere, and can begin the process of making new memories in a new house. It won't be here, but that's ok. In fact, when we bought this place 7 years ago, we had no idea that Here would turn into Home as much as it has. I would argue that the two sleeping kids in the yellow bedroom just off the green kitchen can claim the most credit for that transition. Unlike the paint on the walls or the tiled floors, those kids are coming with us, so we should have a pretty easy time finding Home wherever we land. I just hope to find it before the rain comes.