Moving to Texas?!?!

Tonight’s theme is “So-Called Chaos” by Alanis Morisette.



So much going on right now I barely know where to begin to gather my thoughts. Matt was offered a job in Houston, Texas. I promised him a long time ago that where he went I’d go. I meant it. I had never really had any kind of place to call “home” aside from my Gram’s. Home to me always meant her house, since I never really had any other long enough to ever bother to call it home.

You don’t bother to make what someone called “forever friends” when you know in three months you’ll be living somewhere else. You make friends but you don’t invest too much in it, it won’t last very long anyway. I never did make any “forever friends” growing up. I never gave the promise of writing or keeping in touch. That ability to cut ties within a minute’s notice has been a gift as well as a curse. It allows you to stay sane when you know that what is home today will be a distant memory in a year and you’ll be lucky to recall the address. I’ve moved 53 times so far in my life. There’s very little stability when you never bother to unpack anything because you’ll just have to repack it anyways. The first time I even bothered to put clothes in my dresser that sat in my room my entire life I had my own apartment. Until then I just used the boxes. That way at least it saved me time later on for the “You’ll need to gather your things…” speech. We never had posters in our room, we never hung things on the door, and we never bothered. They’ll just get torn or taken down in a month, maybe three.

When Matt and I finally built this house he said to me that it was time to actually allow myself to put down roots. Even until this I hadn’t really bothered to do that. Home was still my Gram’s house. I lived in a house, but it wasn’t “home”. I didn’t dare to bury any of the pets we lost there because it wasn’t permanent, it was temporary. I knew that. Pets were buried at Matt’s parent’s house. Their resting place would never be dug up to put in a garage or something there. We moved here and when we lost Cooper I placed him in the side yard, in his favorite spot. I never thought we’d ever leave him there alone. Reial, Little White joined him over time, Finnegan as well. Now we may be leaving. This will no longer be “home”. Again I’ll be living out of boxes.

Part of me isn’t really bothered by this, it’s oddly normal to me and part of me is greatly disturbed to be letting go of the stability that comes with having a real “home” to go home to, that someplace that you desire more than anything to be where you take a vacation and you’d rather be there than somewhere else. Daily Matt and I walk the halls of our home and one of us will say, “I love our home.” It’s random, but heartfelt. Now we may be leaving the home he designed for me, the home where my father helped us build the steps that go up to our front door, our pets that have gone before us and the memorial trees I’ve planted for those we’ve lost. My gardens that I’ve invested myself into and my perch to watch the sunrises each and every day will belong to someone else. It’s kind of depressing really.

It’s a great opportunity for Matt, and the financial aspects of it are realistically too much to even consider turning down. This is not something you even think about saying no to. Home is where he is, and yet I’ve allowed myself to get attached to a plot of land I’ve called our own for so long. I’ve never lived anywhere in my entire life as long as I’ve lived in this house. We’ve been here eight years this April. That’s a record for me. I don’t mind the work that comes along with moving. I can pack an entire house within 2 days, upon reaching the destination of choice unpack it all within another 2. I’ve had that responsibility enough times it’s nearly wrote. I’ve gotten so used to throwing away things that haven’t been used in the last six months to make packing easier I get a dumpster once per year simply out of habit and clean out the house routinely. Matt used to find it odd but he’s become accustomed to it. Anything not tied down that hasn’t been somehow utilized gets tossed or put in a bag for Salvation Army.

I never really thought we’d be packing up from here though. Something in the back of my mind just said this was it. This was my final destination. A real home finally, a place to plant the flower seeds from my Great Grandmother’s garden, a place to put in my Grandfather’s chives. Now I’m kicking myself for thinking that this was it. In part I feel stupid for allowing myself to become attached to a plot of land. For someone who doesn’t really form any permanent sort of bonds to anything you can’t carry on your back or take with you by leash or carrier, I’ve allowed myself to invest way more than I really want to give up here. I’ve allowed myself to become invested in not only this home, but the people here. I barely see them enough for my liking as it is, and living across the country is not really conducive to grabbing a quick dinner on the fly to catch up. In a short but indeterminate amount of time it’ll be left to the occasional email and pictures of nieces and nephews I get with Christmas cards, if even then. Summer days spent tanning with Amanda as we wave at the fly boys that fly over us will be merely a memory. Easter egg hunts for the kids we have here every year will be no more. Christmas dinners hosted here will be a distant memory. My Gram only a brief 4.5 hour drive will be days away from me. I can’t simply run down to see her if I have a three day weekend open up.

I know that in order to best advance Matt’s career, to have him literally double his salary and set us quite literally financially for the rest of our lives with the stock options and profit sharing to turn this down would be insane. Yet I’m torturing myself over what we’re losing to have that. My business would be easily given off to Kathy and the other groomers I work with. I can easily start it over again somewhere else. It’ll take me about two years of 12 hour days to do, but that would give me something to focus on while I’m there. That’s not even remotely a concern and barely something to consider. How do I let go of what I love so much and just let it slide through my fingers when I finally became accustomed to having it? That’s the rub I guess really. Just when I finally allow myself to break my own rules about getting invested in anything outside of Matt and our own small fuzzy familial circle it is coming back to bite me. I can hear my father laughing and saying, “Typical Anj”. I have a gift for making critical errors like this that come back to bite me hard. I above all should know better. I’ve been through this whole “moving on and moving forward” thing so many times before. Why is it though that my stomach is lurching at the very idea of not being there for my niece’s birthday party? Why do I sigh and grumble at the missed dinners with Darleen spent laughing our behinds off at Applebees?

My father had no trouble cutting strings to anyone, even us when it suited him. We’d go years without seeing him or even hearing from him. He knew the price of investment, and didn’t allow himself the cost which is obvious by the number of times he’s been married I suppose. At least I learned that some investment wasn’t bad, but never thought I’d go in for the whole plating a tree and expecting to see it grow kind of thing, foolish and perhaps naïve. I’m cursing myself on so many levels for allowing myself to get to this point and yet part of me says that it was good to do so. I’m having a tough time adjusting to this. On one hand I know this is the wisest course of action. This makes sense. On the other hand part of me is screaming rather childishly that I simply don’t want to give up these things. I know it’s ridiculous. I keep telling myself it’s ridiculous, life goes on and in six months or less it’ll all be different and no one will miss us being here. After the first Christmas most friends won’t even bother to send another card. I know the drill. The childlike portion of my brain is stomping her foot saying “Not again!”

I have to go into this with a positive attitude for Matt. I have to be willing to let these things go, and drive on with him. I imagine he must feel the same way. He’s moved a number of times himself, though not quite nearly as many as I have, but he’s used to the drill as well. I don’t want to dump this on him, or make him feel like I’m giving up anything here. What he notices he notices but I’m surely not going to be pointing it out to him. This is what’s best for both of us, and it’s time to get over the childlike wants, and start figuring out what needs to go on the back of the moving truck and what needs to go in the front. I have to admit though; it was awfully nice to have a home, for whatever time I was able to have it. Maybe someday in the future I’ll have one again. We’ll have to wait and see....