I have spent this entire past week moving out of the house the boys and I have lived in all of their lives. I can’t decide if it has been a freeing or depressing or a large dosage of both. Book by book, box by box, sock by sock, and memory by memory, I moved through our beloved old house (built in 1885). I have found myself lingering over the phases, recalling things I didn’t know were buried within me. Some memories are funny, some are sad, very sad. All of them together form the backdrop of who we are as a family and a spring-broad of who will each will be in the future, both alone and together. Cries of infancy, giggles of toddlerhood, and the preteen tussles over homework and later yelling matches from different rooms about who has the remote and who let the dog out without checking to see if the gates were closed and questions like “am I the only one who knows how to pack the dishwasher?” echo off the walls. Today I unloaded the dryer for the last of thousands of times and found myself a little tearful, not so much that we are moving house, but because all change demands loss, not matter how wonderful the gains.

Posted on September 29, 2018 at 1:17 pm in Difficult Relationships   |  RSS feed |   Reply   |   Trackback URL