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.

Cats in the Bathroom

Yesterday, and tomorrow, my parents' cats will be spending the day in the kids' bathroom. Or possibly in Ironflower's bedroom. Maybe both for excitement. The cats are high strung and there is fear that they would disappear or completely freak out if left to roam around our house.

Or they might escape, which is why they are here in the first place. It's too much to ask that the countless people traipsing through an open house be on the look out for your cats, I guess. After 39 years, my parents are putting their house on the market. I believe they are the last of my high school friends' parents to move out of our highly taxed home town, but I haven't exactly taken a poll.

I am not sure how I feel about this. One the one hand,  that's my childhood home. It was a lovely and magical place to grow up. It was nice that my kids got to play in the same yard and whatnot. Plus, my mom really doesn't want to move. On the other hand, my parents really don't need that much of a house, yard or tax bill anymore. It's time.

I guess we're all ambivalent. Except the cats. They are PISSED.