Change

Okay, I know I said to ignore me when I wrote that we were moving, but we are. Really. Or, I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. Or possibly both.

I am sitting here amongst piles of boxes, listening to the sultry sound of termite-destroying drills. We are finally getting our termites treated (treated being a euphemism for killed, of course). We have packed up our family room and I have found items I haven’t seen in years. Who knew my favorite book was hidden behind the computer desk? Or that our cordless phone was dead on top of the 7-foot bookcase?

Marti practically drove me to drink packing yesterday. He took the day off and we packed for about 5 hours straight in the afternoon, possibly to atone for the fact that I slept late and we went to breakfast. We mowed right through all our book boxes and we now have several hundred pounds of books balanced precariously in boxes in the front room. Maya enjoyed playing around them, but I did pick up the dressmaker’s shears I found on the floor this morning - we wouldn’t want her to hurt herself. She howled, so I gave her some matches and small choking hazards to make up for it.

Of course I am kidding. I would never give a small child matches. I have a hard enough time finding them to light our ever-broken stovetop.

Actually, the entire house is one big child-safety hazard right now. I groaned as I picked up the scissors but between the boxes, the shrapnel from having gone through drawers and files, and our usual mess, I am sometimes surprised I don’t come around the corner to find Maya secretly juggling steak knives for fun. When I say I hope we survive this move, I really mean survive.

This is the funny thing: I can’t wait to move. We’ve tried moving in years past, even packed a few boxes, but this time I really think we’re ready. We are freakishly close to our original plan of living in this house for 5 years — it will be 5 years in July — and although moving means I have to give up a few pipe dreams about renting our guest house and laying solar panels on the roof, mostly I feel relief.

I am kind of a bum at heart — I don’t much go for sleek, expensive cars and I personally would rather have a smaller house than I have now (or a van, or bus, or whatever works). I have gotten slightly more materialistic as I have aged — for example, I don’t like sleeping on the ground when I vacation now, or going without food because I’m broke — but the thought of being free of some of these material possessions is exhilarating. Don’t get me wrong — I like to have money in the bank — but that’s where I like it. In the bank.

So maybe we’ll trade in our beat-up Volvo for a car with air conditioning, or maybe we won’t. But if the house sells I will finally be able to pay off my student loans and can stop cursing my alma mater for being so damn expensive. I can also stop attempting to be a professional and get down to the serious business of relaxing. I won’t quit my job (although it’s tempting) but maybe I’ll have time to write some trashy novels or sit outside and watch the grass grow. Maybe I’ll take a road-trip (debt-free!) or take an actual vacation, something we haven’t done since before Benjamin was born.

It’s really time for us to sell. And, although I will miss Ben’s tiny footprints in the cement of our back porch, that’s about all I will miss I think. Mostly I can’t wait.