I rolled out of bed this morning with excitement, a bounce that hasn’t been in my step for a long time. But there was something else too, something that surprised me a little, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on until I got on the bus to get to work and had a chance to just sit and think for a while.
Oh yes. That’s what it is.
Perhaps the source of the niggle of negativity was the dream I had last night in which we walked into our house for the first time as homeowners and found the previous owners still there, painting the walls bright red and scrubbing the bathroom to spotless. Sure, they were friendly and Greek — probably my subconscious latching on to the demographic of the neighbourhood — but I certainly didn’t want them there and I definitely didn’t want my walls red, no matter if it’s my favourite colour or not.
I don’t think the trepidation came from the dream though.
I think it came from the same sense of place inside me that caused me to break down on my drive to the old farm house two weeks before my family moved when I was 18. It’s the same thing that caused me to snap a picture of my student house as we packed it up and moved me out, a house I was so glad to leave.
According to OMG: A Youth Ministry Handbook, (edited by Kenda Creasy Dean) rural teenagers have a stronger connection to geography, to place, than their urban counterparts. I’m not a teenager anymore — I’m a few years gone from being a teenager, actually — but I have a feeling that sense of place has travelled with me into adulthood. That twinge I am feeling today has been a twinge for the place we will be leaving behind, the cute little apartment on the 30th floor of a condo building in the Big City, our first home together. It was small, but we made it cozy and filled it with family. And, I’ll admit, there was something comforting about living so close to other families, like we were nestled on all sides, held safe by other people living their day-to-day lives, just like we were. The building was like a cocoon.
The things I will miss? The concierge: the petite Asian girl who loved to see Mocha and cheerfully chirped, “Have a good walk!” every time she saw us leaving the building with our bouncing cockapoo on a leash. The elevator, where Mocha made her best friends. All of Mocha’s best friends — Harlow, Goldie, Jake, Bailey, Moinecka, Luna. I’ll miss the dishwasher (until we get our own) and the washer and dryer (until we get our own). I’ll even miss our mailbox, the only broken one among a wall of mailboxes.
I know a lot of this is because I’m a little nervous about what exactly we’ve gotten ourselves into. I don’t have the Husband’s confidence nor his experience. I could see nothing but excitement in his expression this morning. Hopefully tonight, as we pop the cork on our $13 bottle of sparkling wine (we very briefly considered the $65 bottle of real live Champagne…), the excitement will overshadow the trepidation. I’m counting on it.
— The Wife