When You Can (and Should) Go Home Again (as in we’re moving to Colorado OMG)

We’ve talked about moving out of state several times over the past decade. “It’d be fun to live in Europe for a while,” I say.

“Or Colorado.”

“Tampa?” he asks.

“No way,” I say. “Too many bugs. Too humid. I can barely stand the bugs and humidity here.”

This year, it got more real. My husband got a promotion, and because the government is the least efficient entity in the history of time, there wasn’t an actual job to go along with the promotion.

There was one in Colorado though.

I got excited.

And then, I panicked. “I don’t want to move.” I cried.

They say you can’t go home again. I was born and raised in Colorado.

Loved and lost there.

Lived there. Visit there. Love it there. 

Convinced my friend Julie and almost all of her family that it’s good there. Her sister Sara is my other best friend, and the one I went scuba diving with in Turks and Caicos. Sign-language sang Puff the Magic Dragon with.

Maybe, you can go home again.

Except, I’ve been here, now. Live here, now. I’m not sure I want to leave.

Except, we are. Leaving.

Here’s a post about when you can (and should) go home again.

And about home in general. The home you make, and the one you might go back to.

So many reasons to not move. To stay here, in this home that we bought when I was pregnant. Remodeled. Gutted.

This home that we have said goodnight and good morning in for almost nine years.

Nine years.

Where does it go?

Home. This home with its Bolivian Rosewood wide-plank floors that I had to have. Waited for, for six months while they cleared customs.

The ones I worried were too hard for a tiny human head. Worried about my baby’s head splattering like a watermelon. Buying a pad for $80 that he could play on.

Home. This home with its breakfast bar that nobody’s ever eaten breakfast at because I never bought stools.

Tucker’s baby chair still sits underneath it. It’s where he stood for hours playing with his garbage truck.

Home. Where my son took his first steps. The place we came to from the hospital with him brand new.

I didn’t know what to do, so I carried him from room to room.

“This is the kitchen, little guy. This here will be your room. Here’s our porch, and the pretty tree.”

There’s Sharpie on the door to the closet in the basement. I think he was three then.

There are dents in the floorboards where they’ve been rammed by trucks and Matchbox cars.

Home. Where my shower is, where Tucker used to play ghetto carwash.

His baby room, still with a monkey painted on the wall.

His now room, the best shade of blue.

Home.

A trip to Colorado Springs. Homes are cheaper there than they are here. A lot cheaper.

Our new home was the third house we looked at. We looked at 17 more. Because, Robert.

Then we made an offer. The asking amount. And they came back asking for $11,000 more.

Turns out, they wanted a later closing date. One that worked better for us anyway.

Ohmygod that stress. They accepted.

We close on it in June.

I still lie awake thinking “Who do we think we are? We don’t need that big fancy home…” “There are only three of us.”

But the schools. It was this neighborhood or the older one that was more money with more dated houses.

I’m still in denial, even though there was a handyman here all day today fixing things like the broken tile in the main-level bathroom so that we can rent this place out while we’re gone.

Will we be back? Will I love this home as much in three years as I do now that I’m sad about leaving it?

I don’t know.

Robert’s job is only guaranteed out there for three years.

He needs either four or nine more to get DOD retirement/pension.

There will always be DOD jobs here.

There? I don’t know.

I’m trying to not freak out about that.

To not freak out about the fact that no neighborhood I’ve ever been in does Halloween like this neighborhood does.
I can’t even explain how good it is. It’s that good. Everybody’s out. People bring fire pits to the street. Grownups and kids dress up. There’s chili served. Wine in tumblers as parents shepherd kids from door to door.

Decorations everywhere.

I took photos from the hallway down today. To I guess make it more generic? People need to picture their lives. Not yours.

Still.

The house out there is newer than this one.

It’s bigger than this one. Has a real yard.

It’s an hour away from my dad, and less than that from one of my brothers and his family. Tucker’s cousins.

It’s really pretty.

This one’s pretty, too. I’d forgotten how pretty it is until now, when I’m faced with leaving it. Trusting renters to not have a cat pee in it. To not smoke in it. To not destroy it.

We’re moving to Colorado, is what I’m saying.

My first and original home, but not my home now.

Home, here, where the new patio has held two last-day-of-school watergun fights. The patio we’ll have another one this June 15.

Right before we move. To a new home.

OMG will Tucker be okay? He has such a great group of friends here. They know him, as him. My friends know me. Both of us. All of us.

A new state to us, an old state, to me. My state. Colorado. Where babies are born with bigger lungs because of the altitude. I wonder if that’s real. I read it once.

Are my lungs still bigger, or have they shrunk while living in flat-land Virginia/DC for 14 years now?

It’s been 14 years? Holy crap.

But. I mean, new memories are good.

Change is good.

No wait, that’s change is hard.

Good too maybe?

We can always come back.

I don’t know whether or not we’ll want to though.

***

This has been a stream-of-consciousness post for the new Finish the Sentence Friday prompt that I host with Kenya G. Johnson of Sporadically Yours. This week’s prompt is “Home.” It’s supposed to be five minutes, and when the timer went off, I couldn’t stop. Which, is good I think. Or now. Who knows.

I also took a break to take a photo of the really pretty crown molding.
…and the floors.
…and the kitchen backsplash.
…and the patio.
(Ok this is getting embarrassing)