Good-Bye

I have always secretly enjoyed moving. I mean, not the lifting of heavy boxes or the saying good-bye to friends and family if the move was long distance, but the opportunity to purge and reorganize and find the best pizza place. Then again, I have never lived in my dream house. Or dream apartment. I've lived in perfectly lovely places (and some not so lovely ones, to be honest) but I've never moved anywhere and thought, "THIS. This is IT."

My parents did that almost 40 years ago, though. Which perhaps is partly what has allowed me to gallivant around the country for most of my adult life. My childhood home was always there. And it was a great home to grow up in - lots of nooks and crannies, a huge yard to play in and even my own bathroom when I was a teenager. And this weekend my parents moved out of it.

I have such a mixture of emotions about this. Part of it is guilt - they've helped us so much, did we force them to move sooner? Or, if I had been more financially successful, could have I paid their crushing property taxes? I also feel heartbroken for my mom - she never wanted to move. And then there's disappointment that we don't get to enjoy more holidays at the house, that my kids don't get to keep sledding on the lawn. I'm also still a little horrified by the sheer amount of stuff and how much of it was mine.

But mostly, I will just be relieved when it's over. When they've settled into their perfectly nice, more practical, slightly closer new place, I will be glad to hear my mom complain about what she doesn't like about her new kitchen, and to hear how many times my Dad's gotten pizza from Kinchley's. Because while I was fortunate to grow up in such a wonderful house, I was way more fortunate to have the parents I do. And as I look at my Facebook timeline, heart saddening for a friend who's just lost her mom, or for a friend who's mom never got to meet her daughter, or for a friend who's just had her first Christmas without her dad, I realize it's not the house that has always given me a sense of home and safety, it's my parents. And the fact that we get to make new memories in a new house makes us all very lucky.

The Hospital Is For Sale

Yesterday I took Hugmonkey to a birthday party. On the way to the party, we drove through a nearby town where there are a lot of mansions. Like, houses so big that they look kind of ridiculous. So much so that Hugmonkey said, "Mommy, that hospital is for sale!" as we passed one that was indeed for sale.

"Sweetie, that's a house for sale."

"Mommy, that's too big to be a house. That's a hospital," Hugmonkey is nothing if not sure of himself.

"No babe, it's a house."

"Mommy, you're silly!"

I gave up. It did kind of look like a mental hospital.



I think this is the house we saw. If not, it is for sale in the same town and looks like the one we saw, so you get Hugmonkey's point.

I also feel compelled to point out that we do not live in England, or wherever ancestral piles like this are still around. This house isn't even 20 years old and it's in New Jersey. It has no excuse.

Not that I begrudge anyone living in a house as big as Hot Guy's hometown hospital, exactly. I just don't get it. Every year I watch the HGTV Dream Home special (though I never win) and the "Dream" houses are never this big or wannabe looking. And they're supposed to be dreams.

Even when I win the Powerball, I just know I'll never buy a house like this. Would you?