At some point I realized I just wanted to go home. Not to the perfect city, perfect country in a house with the perfect library. Not even the actual house I grew up in, just a place that felt safe and felt mine.
We moved 6 times in the past 5 years. 5 different cities, 2 very different countries. There was something about not being able to put my pictures up in the wall that deeply disturbed me. I worried about the kids, as I pointed out many times that I didn’t wanna move around much ’cause this can be disturbing for a child. Heck, it was disturbing for me as an adult as well.
When we moved last year, I cried. I didn’t want to do that anymore. No more moving. Just staying still. I wanted something at least slightly permanent.
So, I said it out loud. “The only way I am moving out of this house is if we ever buy a house of our own”.
It turns out I have magical powers.
We found a house that was small and cozy and painted in red and green… which reminded me of Christmas. There’s nothing safer than the stability of Christmas traditions. I did not change a thing when we moved in. I was just happy to be home.
I can barely wait for the memories we will build here.