At least once a day, LittleBrother tells me, “I love our new house.”
That’s good, because we live there whether he loves it or not.
I had been worried about the boys’ transition to the new house. In the weeks preceding our move, they asked lots of questions. Like, “Are we going to take our toys?” And, “What about our beds?” And one that LittleBrother kept harping on, “Mommy, please don’t forget my toothbrush, okay?” It’s hard to explain that, yes, you’re going to move everything to the new house. BigBrother didn’t remember the last move; he was three months old and had a crib, a bouncy seat and some basic toys. Since then, he collected a bit more stuff… to put it mildly.
Thankfully they really do love the new house. They have more space in absolutely every place they could have more space. More bedroom space. A longer hallway to run up and down in their underwear, yelling, “Tra-la-LAA!,” thus channeling Captain Underpants. A much, much bigger playroom. Bigger rooms that they don’t care about (read: kitchen, dining room, and so on). A big front yard and a huge back yard! Even their closets are bigger and I have found them, on more than one occasion, huddled in a closet, playing and giggling. The transition hasn’t been much of a transition for them at all.
Maybe it’s because they’re kids and they adjust to change easier than adults do — or, uh, easier than I do. Because why can’t I remember where the cups and glasses are? Or the microwave — it’s not like the microwave is hard to see. There it is! See it! It is not over there! Why do you walk over there? I don’t know. The kitchens aren’t even remotely shaped the same, so why do I wander around aimlessly opening cupboard doors? Also, I keep reaching to the right for the toilet paper; it is not there. It is on the left. In fact, it was on the left at the old house, too. What is my problem?
But maybe it’s also because of their outlook on life.
We were heading home today after running a few errands.
“Home, home, home we go,” I chanted from the driver seat. Mostly I was trying to keep LittleBrother awake as he looked particularly dozy. As a rule, if he falls asleep in the car, he will be a bear for the rest of the day. We try to avoid this at all costs.
There was a pause. I was afraid he had fallen asleep.
“Home is where your heart is,” came his little voice from the back seat. I was kind of taken aback.
“Home. is. where. your. heart. is,” he slow-spoke in a louder voice than before, just in case I was either losing my hearing or just not very smart. I craned my neck at the stop sign to see him in the back seat.
“Well, that’s true. Very true. So is our new house a home?”
“Yes, Mommy. You’re silly.”
And there you have it.
Maybe he didn’t have a transition or adjustment period because it wasn’t about the house or the space or finding the freaking microwave or the bathroom in the dark (though that was an interesting first night which caused us to purchase a night light for the hall the next day). Our home traveled with us from one house to another. The heart of our family didn’t change, just the place where we live.
My four-year-old is wiser than I am — and I’m okay with that.
I just hope to stop wandering around the kitchen sometime soon. You know, before I rearrange it and cause further confusion and delay. That’s just how I roll.