Eight years ago this week, we moved into our house. Back then, I was about to turn 28. I worked full-time in an office about 45-mins away. I had two babies: B was 2 years old and G was just 8 months. Matt and I actually worked together in the same office–dropping the kids at daycare each morning as we commuted to work.
The past eight years have simultaneously flown by in the blink of an eye and seemed to lasted decades. I can barely remember what it was like to have two children. I can’t imagine getting up and getting ready for an office job and dropping my kids at a daycare for ten hours anymore. And 28 year old me looks like a baby herself with far fewer lines and greys.
But these eight years have been so full and so rich and so damn good. And this house has become home.
Three of my four children learned to talk and to walk here. All of my children learned to ride bikes in this driveway and throw a baseball and cross the monkey bars and pump their own swings in this yard. I’ve taken three of them—and am about to take the fourth—on the short walk through the neighborhood to drop them at their first day of kindergarten.
Matt and I have gone from late twenties and early thirties to late thirties and VERY late thirties.
We’ve grown out of babyhood and toddlerhood and are facing the teen years head on.
And through it all, we’ve had this home as our constant — our base and our security and the place my children will always, ALWAYS think of as home. We’re here for the duration, locked in happily to a neighborhood of friends and a life we love.
No matter where we may roam, we’ll come back here in the end.
It’s been a good eight years.