We’re moving this weekend. We seem to do this somewhat habitually, just ask the friends who get suckered into helping each time.
The first place Jim and I lived in together was a rented condo in Tempe. There was pink 80s carpet and our two big dogs and no yard. I don’t think we ever hung a single thing on the walls or met our neighbors, but it was a first home for us to live in together (yes, in sin!).
Next, we bought our first house in North Central Phoenix. The “cool” neighborhood where we could walk and bike to dozens of awesome restaurants and bars. It was a restored 1950s home that was perfect in a lot of ways, but then there were the roof rats. And the tree roots in our pipes. And when we wanted to have a family, we trekked north to the suburbs near Kierland.
We redid almost all of our second house, from floor to ceiling – literally – and bathrooms and kitchen to boot. Then there was the storm of all storms that knocked over trees and destroyed the yard. We rebuilt, and have loved it here, but it’s never felt like a place to stay for too long.
This next move though, is just a mile away. I don’t glamorize it by calling it our forever home – because goodness knows we have a nomadic track record – but it’s a home I’m excited to raise a family in. It’s perfectly imperfect and just right for us. It has everything we want and just enough quirkiness (hello, stained glass kachina doll window). It’s less cookie cutter and more tucked away.
I’m an introvert. I love being at home and I crave peaceful, cozy spaces. A friend once gave me a sign that reads, “Home is my Favorite,” and it was the most fitting gift for me. And as much as I love stability and structure, moving is exciting to me. I guess I never outgrew my love of playing ‘House.’
Here’s to the next chapter and a lot of cardboard boxes.