Earlier this month I called one of my best friends and was hysterical. I’m not sure exactly what I said, but I remember hanging up the phone, walking though a pile of boxes and crawling into my bed. I saw her two days later and she told me that her husband had heard me melting through the receiver and said, “I’ve only heard Jess like that once before.”
Thirteen years ago we had just moved into a hospital, facing the biggest fight of our lives. I’m not saying that this move compares to that hell, but the overwhelming exhaustion is comparable. The physical work took it’s toll on this middle-age, non-athlete and the emotional component I found far more brutal than I’d prepared for. Sorting through memories and packing up boxes was just the beginning.
We chose to move because it was time – because Clinton Avenue didn’t make sense for our family anymore. Four stories of living was just too much for our boy. It was too much for me. Too many stairs, too much space between the master bedroom and Jack’s, too many walls to hide Jack from our vision. Our morning routine would have me up and down the steps countless times and during the bad weather it would often take me ten minutes to get Jack from our front door, down the stairs, through the path and onto the school bus. We knew we needed a change, but we couldn’t help but feel that ALD was stealing another thing from our family — our dream home.
When we started looking, we didn’t know if we’d find something that would fit our family AND compete with our beautiful, memory-filled Clinton Avenue. Even after we found this house that checked all our boxes, I would wake up during the night with my heart racing, thinking that we were making a huge mistake. Lack of sleep, physical exhaustion, packing up way too much stuff tucked away in every nook and cranny of a turn-of-the-century home — before the move actually happened, I was a basket case.
Then came the move. It ended up taking three days and once the moving truck left our driveway I went to take a shower and realized that it was my first shower in the new home (no, I hadn’t snuck one in anywhere else). The next morning one of the movers stopped by to follow-up. When he saw me clean with some mascara on, he said, “Wow. I didn’t recognize you.”
That was three weeks ago and finally Speir Drive is starting to feel like home. We’re getting used to the new routine and appreciating that it is easier. Right now I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room, with light pouring in from the skylights. Jack’s in his room just steps away watching That 70s Show (his new fav). The master bedroom is just beyond Jack’s room so when Dan and I wake up in the night, we can glance into his room without getting out of bed. The living space is all open, everything we need is on this level and when the bus arrives in the morning, we just open the door and there it is. No steps, no need for even an umbrella.
Banana has a beautiful room upstairs, where there are also a couple of guest rooms, and the house has a beautiful yard with a pool. It’s lovely – perfect for our family and perfect for entertaining. Dan doesn’t like it, but I’ve been describing the house as a mullet – all business in the front and a party in the back;)
We loved Clinton. It was our dream house that we managed to make perfect year by year. It was filled with memories and I credit it’s walls for holding us together through some of the most difficult times of our lives. It was hard to say good-bye, but I’m starting to feel like Speir Drive is going to feel like our dream home too before long. The boxes are almost empty and we’re heating up that pool so that we can start diving into making some new memories.
Happy Memorial Day!