We moved back in yesterday.

It’s not picture perfect; there are still some doors, trim, bathroom sinks, floor transitions, etc., to finish.

Moving “helpfully” coincided with seasonal clothing changeover. The first step once we finished packing up at the old habitation and arrived at our house was to clear out the piles and bins of clothes in the living room to make space for unloading furniture.

This being our tenth move in almost fourteen years of marriage, I can say with seasoned certainty that I hate the process of moving—the chaos, the operating systems being disrupted and/or discarded, the overwhelm of alllll the “Mom, where does this go?” and other decisions, the sorting through every last belonging down to the LEGO single-stud plates mixed with dust bunnies under the beds, and especially that awful space of time when you and your belongings down to those LEGO plates are in limbo between dwellings and you don’t have a home and you can’t stop crying and you’re not even exactly sure why but maybe it’s because you haven’t taken a break from working pell-mell to get ready to move for six weeks and you haven’t slept well for the last two.

(Just maybe?)

I love the way that it is all coming together…I really do. I get flashes of I’m so glad I chose this color and the couch and the wafer lights turned low are so perfect for reading to the kids and that wood looks amazing next to that green…and then I feel such a heavy weight of everything that still needs to happen and all the laundry and the sorting…and I feel so tired.

That’s not to say that I’m not incredibly grateful that we’re here. That I’m glad that we get to be a family, together, back in our own space.

I just don’t feel it quite yet.

Be excited for me, and give me a little time. I’ll get there.