We're in the new house. Which is lovely. The problem is that we're still in the old house, too. I keep wondering how moving five blocks could be so much harder than moving 2021 miles. There is the possibility that the section of my mind that I lost during that move contained the memory of just how complicated and difficult it was. Or maybe I was just so distracted by the grief of leaving California and the excitement of arriving in Illinois.
At any rate, even though we didn't have to meticulously ensconce all our breakables in bubble wrap or figure out how to ship our vehicle: Lord, have mercy. The dribble of stuff from there to here is crazymaking enough, and when you combine it with busy work schedules and third trimester pregnancy and a three-year-old who decided that her first bath in the new house would be an emergency, must-break-the-104-degree-fever bath, again I say: Lord, have mercy.
Nevertheless, we're hanging in there. And it is delightful to be actively transforming this house into our home. As I wander around, figuring out where things go and such, I am reminded again and again of my grandmother's house in Massillon, Ohio. It doesn't look like it; it feels like it. I think it has something to do with the street it's on (even though there is not a People's Drug Store or a candy shop at the end of the road). And the height of the trees in the neighborhood. And something that I can't articulate yet pulls at my heartstrings like you wouldn't believe. All I know is that this house is unexpectedly and powerfully blessed by my Grandma Watson, and I can't think of a better confirmation that we're in the right place.