3 hours and forty minutes from now we are going to take a walk-through with the new landlord. We get to see that everything is clean and working and he gets a big fat check, then we get keys... then we get to move, then we get to clean the Treehouse and settle in to the New House... etc, etc... I feel very nervous. I hope the boys like their new home. I hope it's big enough to contain us and our worldly treasures. I hope the neighbors are nice. I hope the new landlord doesn't intend to drop by often. I hope our move does not coincide with natural disasters or acts of terror...
There is a lot to be done between now and our last day at the Treehouse. The hard part is clearing, sorting, packing, organizing, and the other hard part is accepting that this won't be our last move, that we have to answer to the landlord when it comes to paint on the wall and pets in the yard. No chickens for me. No garden beds either. I've been thinking a lot about what makes a house a home, and what it is about our personal things that contributes to our identities. For three years I have felt like I a temp; here for a while, about to move on. The boys are looking forward to not sleeping 2 feet from the dining table and 3 feet from the kitchen, and I harbor fantasies of decorating their rooms and setting them up in spaces that reflect their interests and my affection for them... I just feel so incapable, like this is just another holding pattern. I know this is my life, not a dress rehearsal, but I haven't felt at home in a very long time, and I don't know how to get there.
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