Early this spring, I went through a major nesting phase in prep for welcoming Gannon into our family. We redid our kitchen, which was totally insane to do whilst nine months pregnant. Having a construction zone for a kitchen while trying to prepare for a baby wasn’t totally ideal, but we really wanted to upgrade a little bit before the baby arrived. And mostly, I wanted to install a dishwasher because hand washing and sterilizing bottles by hand is a total bitch. Thus ensued the kitchen remodel.
A month later, Gannon arrived. And about six weeks after that, despite the kick ass dishwasher and the gorgeous new kitchen, we realized that our house was slowly getting smaller. It’s not that we don’t have enough square footage per se, but our house is old and the layout is very choppy. When I’m cooking in the kitchen, I can’t see the kids. The entire house is hardwood (tricky for setting down a tiny baby) and our massive wood burning fireplace is just begging for someone to bust their face on the surrounding brick. So, even though we finally finished redoing our little kitchen, we considered the fact that we might eventually need to move.
It all happened really fast after that. I swear, we decided to meet with a realtor “just to talk” about our options. One thing led to another and two weeks later, we listed. Our house sold four days after that. The only thing more shocking that could possibly have taken place would have been finding out that we were pregnant with another baby (which thankfully was not the case).
After it settled in that we were actually moving, we set out to find a new house. You can imagine what that process was like – stalking the MLS, setting up appointments, and dragging two kids under four years old to showing after showing.
We found a house we absolutely loved and we made an appointment to see it early one Saturday morning. After fifteen minutes of touring the home, the baby was due to eat. My husband and our realtor took Grey outside to check out the backyard so that I could feed Gannon in private. I sat in the living room of this house, breastfeeding on someone else’s couch. Between the tour, debating whether or not this place would fit all of our shit, and feeding the baby, we’d spent the better half of the morning hanging in this house. By the time we got out of there and got the kids strapped in their car seats, Grey decided he had to take a shit. Our realtor kindly unlocked the door and let us back inside. As I used the last of this stranger’s toilet paper to wipe Grey’s ass that day, I realized that trying to move with small children might have been a mistake.
I honestly feel like we accidentally sold our house, but even so, I know it is the right thing. We are finally moving within a few miles of work and the kids’ daycare. We are half hour closer to my family who will be just under an hour away. And we will have a much more open, airy space for our kids to enjoy. I’m excited, terrified, stressed, overwhelmed, and nervous. Besides his occasional tantruming, Grey is handling the transition of welcoming a new baby and moving into a new house pretty damn well. And while I will always love our first home – the house that my wedding photos were taken in, the house that my babies came home to – I know that our new place will be our forever home. Here’s to the holidays, the new house, and to new memories.