We moved into our house three years ago yesterday. I know I've covered this before, but it's a funny anniversary.
The move was brutal. Long and grueling for a woman who was nine months pregnant and a man who had just had a huge surgery on his shoulder. Had to wedge a doctor's appointment in there, amidst all the chaos. Had to go to work the next day, bright and early, after being up all night because our bed and clothes had to be unpacked. Exhausted, hungry, frustrated, I thought I was gonna DIE.
....except ho ho ho, I had no idea how EASY that day really was. I mean, isn't it CUTE that I thought it was hard to MOVE STUFF and MISS MEALS and GO WITHOUT SLEEP ZOMG. And every year when this anniversary rolls around, I think about the three weeks we lived in this house as a family of two, and it makes me happy and sad and most mortified for being so very naive about what I was getting into. I think about standing in front of our washing machine and pre-washing all the baby clothes (after removing the eight million plastic tethers from all the carter's stuff- WHY do all their clothes have eight million plastic tethers?! wtf?! it's so annoying!) and friends coming over to help us paint and set up baby furniture and I just kind of can't believe our lives were ever, ever that easy.
And as much as this house drives me crazy, it was our daughters' first home. We became parents in this house. Grace became a big sister in this house. It's where we really became a family. So no matter what, I'll always kind of love this house, too. Even in spite of our uninvited guests.