Tonight I realised we’ve eaten the last Sunday roast we’ll have in our house.
In two weeks’ time we’ll be in our new house (hopefully if the bloody legal bullshit goes through). Excited isn’t the word. More space for the small people to shower the floors with their microscopic toys (I thought I hated the large plastic stuff, yeah, loved that stuff now. Bring back the Jumperoo – this small shit sucks). More space to do the messy play I’ve been promising since they sprang from my loins and more cleaning that I will fail to do.
I’ve spent most evenings searching Pinterest for ideas on how to continue to feel an interior design failure, and if I mention ‘metro retro’ tiles one more time in front of Mr MotherFudger I think he’ll call the solicitor and tell him we’ve changed our mind. I’ve already said we will be visiting Ikea within a week of the move and if we don’t paint the new sitting room ‘teal’ before the girlchild’s birthday the following weekend I will go nuclear.
It’s good to have goals.
On Friday I woke up and had a sudden “oh good god we’ve basically done no packing and aren’t even around next weekend” horror moment. So this weekend we’ve gone nuts. We’re like packing pros.
I don’t think we’d cleaned this cupboard in the 3 years we’ve been here. Mmmm gleaming and mostly emptied and packed.
I can confirm Mr MF has definitely come a long way in our 7 years together. He threw out 4 laptops, a high vis jacket and a leather coat I’ve threatened to burn for all of those 7 sweet years. This is the man who keeps everyfuckingthing, “because, in case, you know”. You know what – we’ll horde it till we become that Mr Trevis guy from that BBC documentary who had boxes of rubbish, newspaper and basically shat in a bucket as he couldn’t get to the toilet. Get rid man. And now he has. So much so he says the kids’ mess has driven him to desire some kind of white clinical minimalist space without anything on any surface.
My work here is done.
“Can I put stickers on the fridge Mummy?”…”you do your worst my little lovely girl” *insert evil cartoon laugh here knowing this fridge is going in the dump when we move.
But going back to my initial thought, the roast.
So we’re sitting there eating our Sunday roast and it occurred to me it will be our last. And now we’re into the last of things in this house. The last Monday I’ll take my daughter to preschool WHILE IN THIS HOUSE. The last time I walk to toddler group WHILE IN THIS HOUSE. The last weekend we’ll have together WHILE IN THIS HOUSE.
The house my daughter moved to at 2 weeks old. The house I brought my son home to from hospital. Their first bedrooms. The only house we’ve lived in as a family. The place we all call home. And I felt a bit sad. Will they remember it? I doubt it. Maybe my daughter will have some vague memory (of a fridge she decorated that was ripped out of her life?). And does that matter? It’s a house we’ve loved very much, and one I will miss.
‘The Face of David’ – he’s even looking sad…must remember to pack him.
And then, like usual, Mr MF said exactly what I needed to hear, and told me about all the exciting memories we’ll make in our new house…and reminded me of all the good things – mostly that we can eat in the kitchen, so rather than try to play the ‘no your turn to pick up the 4,000 pieces of half chewed bits of food littering the carpet’ we can wipe it all up from the floor. And hopefully within the next 10 years he will start eating more like a human than a starved Tasmanian Devil:
I should have shares in 1001 carpet spray ffs