I am taking a few vacation days in order to move.
I am moving households.
When I married, 19 months ago, he moved himself and the bare necessities into our house. I felt it was best for the kids.
And it was.
But now, a year and a half later, on the heels of launching a new business, sending kids off to college and everything else that is our mid-summer life, we are moving ourselves to HIS house.
I always wanted to live there, anyway.
I am happy. Seems like this is something that I’ve been waiting for since the day I said, “I do.”
“I do want to live in your house and share your space.”
“I do want to integrate all of us into your life.”
“I do want to move past making room for you and move towards a new place that is ours – all of ours.”
“I do want to design a new kitchen together.”
“I do want to leave a lot of my stuff behind – literally and metaphorically – and start fresh, clean, simple.”
Getting to the simple part seems littered with a LOT of work. My feet hurt, my shoulders hurt, my back hurts.
I am annoyed that I don’t seem to be able to get enough sleep.
But I have absolutely nothing to complain about.
So I won’t.