My Honey loves houses. The year we lived in London (see our little cutie there, waving “Hello” from her very own London Tower?) – my Honey browsed our hometown housing market weekly online, to see where prices were going up and where rehabs clustered, how they looked, how the upgrades impacted price, where we might decide to buy again when we came home.
Within two years, she had her real estate license – and two weeks later, she had her first clients. These days, she sells between 15 and 20 homes a year, ranking annually between 5th and 10th in sales in our community, out of over 550 realtors. She makes me proud. She loves finding the just-right house for each family – the right size, right layout, right block. She loves landing the right price for her sellers. All of this is a passion for her, this buying and selling of houses.
So it should not come as a shock to anyone who knows us: Yes, we are moving again.
This is how moving looks on my Honey:
In one hour flat, she has emptied the entire basement storage room and separated years of memories and belongings into two categories. She gives a quick nod to half of it, flashing me a grin. “This is the stuff I want to get rid of. Okay?”
This is how moving looks on me:
It’s morning, and I’ve just come downstairs. I wash my daughter’s glasses, pull out her vitamins, pour myself a bowl of Cheerios. Then I hunt for my coffee travel mug – in the bowl cabinet, in this house we’ve lived in for four years, on a shelf where my coffee travel mug has never been. I see it by the sink and fill it with liquid life.
Soon, I am walking with purpose towards the Blue Line Train, deeply annoyed by the drivers who roll their cars over the crosswalk lines, blocking my way to the train. It then occurs to me that I haven’t taken the Blue Line since we moved offices three years ago. Ah. I change course, and walk a bit further to catch the bus. I have forgotten my phone. It’s on the kitchen counter, I think, by the coffeepot. Or on the table.
Last night, I sorted 1/3 of the papers and bills we had stacked in a cabinet while our house was on the market. Great progress, right?
This is how moving looks on our eight-year-old:
“Mom, will you be in my band? What instrument do you want to play? Pretend you’re my sister.”
And then: “I wish we could just be there now.”
We have seven weeks to go.