We move in to our new home in eleven days. I look around myself and can’t even fathom that happening. In zero ways does this feel like it’s been a quick process, yet I still can’t believe it’s here.
We bought the land a full year before we broke ground. We wanted to pay it off first, you see, so we wouldn’t be financing dirt into the house payment. So for a whole year we made payments, and went to our very own little patch of earth, and we dreamed.
And then we broke ground and have watched our dream come to life, bit by bit, for the past eight months.
And now it’s time to start packing for what is hopefully our last move in many, many years.
We move in the same week that Junior turns one year old. And that my friends, has gone faster than the speed of light.
He helped me pack his room.
And then later, while we were eating macaroni, he decided that if he’s big enough to pack his own room he’s big enough to feed himself. He wrassled the spoon from my grip, dug it in to his noodles, and spooned them right in to his mouth.
He, I, and the floor were all covered in macaroni by the time he decided he was full, but he did it all by himself and that made me feel just a little bit of sad.
But then I look at this picture and I feel all sorts of joy again.
He’ll only be one when we move in to his brand new home, but I imagine he will be much older than that when he moves out of it.
I know he won’t remember this time in our lives, but it will always be burned in to my memory.
This collection of days of hope and excitement, of dreaming and planning. Of anxiety and worry and bittersweet changes.
Of days when my little boy was small enough to stand in his own window sill and see for the first time a view he will come to memorize.
I just pray that he will love it here as much as we do, and will some day realize what the foundation his bedroom is built on really means to us.