The first morning I woke up in this home we're selling I was laying on a makeshift bed of family room sofa, chair, and ottoman. My son, who was then five, and my husband and I had all snuggled there as our beds weren't yet assembled. When I opened my eyes, I looked out the window and marveled in the seventy-five year old row of oak trees that lined the back of our lot. I'd fallen in love with them; they were the reason we built this home here.
I snuck out from under the covers and tip-toed to a bathroom, where I opened and EPT and peed on the stick.
That was the morning I found out I was pregnant with my daughter. It's always been a lovely association...learning of my pregnancy on the first morning in a new home.
A couple of my neighbors here on this cul-de-sac we're leaving are pregnant. As we've gone through this process of having a home on the market, finding a place to move, and now moving, I've seen their bellies swell. It's been a constant reminder of being pregnant in this home. In a way, I feel like with this move I am transitioning into the next phase of my life...away from my childbearing years and into...what's after that? Parenthood? But I was already a parent. Middle age? That just sounds old.
Anyway, now the home we built nearly five years ago is our "old" house, and the rental we're moving into is the "new" house. This house, the "old" one is still full of miscellaneous things that need to be moved, but we haven't slept here since Saturday. This one has internet and cable, the other one doesn't. We're in between homes. It's all very strange and slightly surreal.