Moving Moth

I know it was a lot to expect of my children, a move so far from all that was familiar, the place that to them was home. Ever found the transition relatively easy. Her view was more simplistic: for her, home did not so much concern the surroundings as it did the people in it, namely, Mummy, Daddy and brother. 

For Moth it was harder. Moth had begun to grow familiar with his surroundings. He was in a comfortable routine and had established relationships beyond our home. Moth was old enough to know what he was leaving behind. We tried to prepare him in advance, but it's hard to explain the unknown to a child with delayed speech. We tried, but he didn't understand. 

We had a long drive ahead following a day that involved a lot of hanging around while two strangers loaded our belongings into a removal van. I don't remember the children being difficult though, despite the change that hung forbodingly in the air with the potential to infect their behaviour and wreak further havoc on the day. In fact, they seemed to welcome the adventure, the lack of routine, and the novelty of their grandfather and uncle's presence to help oversee our preparations for departure. We visited the little park around the corner a couple of times, but mostly watched the comings and goings of the removal men, the furniture gradually diminishing around us.

It was a relief to finally close the door, leave the spare key for the new owner, and get into the car, adrenaline pulsing through us and temporarily postponing the sheer exhaustion of the last few days. Moth and Ever were happy to sit in their car seats and watch Charlie and Lola and Stuart Little, on the DVD player, while we put miles between us and our first family home.

Moth's cries on our arrival, just before midnight, pained me. We had turned the DVD player off at his request an hour or two before, and he went to sleep, blissfully unaware that his world was about to change. He stirred as we were unloading the essentials from our car, his howls drawing attention from the open window of the flat opposite. I carried him into the house and he seemed to resist. "Back to car! Back to car!" he repeated over and over again, until, too tired to protest any more, he let me settle him to sleep in his new bedroom. 

Everything was different the next day. Moth and Ever were refreshed after a good night's sleep. I'm afraid the same can not be said for myself after an uncomfortable night on a damp mattress with no coverlet, and then the arrival of a small army of removal men at dawn. The adrenaline rush from the day before was ebbing, but my two small children were unrelenting, so I pushed onwards. 

Moth and I ventured to the local shop, a two minute walk away, and we restocked our fridge and freezer. His face lit up when he saw the community garden opposite, a place that would soon become a favourite haunt of his. After lunch we walked to the big park, just half a mile down the road and as beautiful as I remembered from our first visit nearly a year before, when we went to view the house that was now ours. We played and explored for the rest of the afternoon. 

While Moth's behaviour proved to be a challenge over the next few weeks, he didn't express any further distress towards the move, but seemed to settle in his own way, and by the time he joined the nursery class at the local primary school, a few weeks later, he was familiar with his surroundings and comfortable with his new routine. 

What he will remember of our former home is uncertain. When we returned to visit family two months later, he did not show any recognition, especially when we attended our old church which had been a big part of our weekly routine. Now he seems completely at ease with life as it is, and we have received more support than we could have hoped for from his school who recognise his need for additional help. 

Moving Moth was never going to be easy, but I believe it was a move that came at the right time, and I am confident this place has so much more to offer him and Ever than the town they were born in. For the last eighteen months I have watched them flourish and grow into themselves and I am so incredibly proud of them.

Being on the Other Side

It's a strange state of being, when you've been anticipating something for a long time, and you finally emerge on the other side. I am overcome by a sense of euphoria and also disbelief. For many months I have tried to envisage aspects of our new life here. Waking up in our home. Village life. The first day in my new work place. 

It still hasn't quite sunk in, even a month on. I almost expect to open my eyes and find myself back in the midst of transition, with half-packed boxes and chaos strewn across the room. It's been like this with any big change in my life. I remember my pregnancy with each of my children, nine months of wondering who I was carrying inside me, what they'd be like, and afterwards, not quite believing they were really here. And meeting Sewel for the first time after a year of talking online. That didn't seem real either.

One day reality will catch up with me, and I won't think about it any more. But for now, strange as it feels, it's also pretty wonderful to be here at last. On the other side.

The Hardest Part

It wasn't the decision to put everything in motion, or the lengths we went to in preparing our house to go on the market. Although I remember well the challenge of condensing down our belongings, and the long, late nights spent, towards the end, filling cracks, painting, rearranging rooms to bring out their best. 

Nor was it the long weeks on the market. The offers that were made just four days in, only to come to nothing. The positive viewings, and the time we spent hoping in vain for a genuine offer. The barren weeks that followed Easter, where the viewings themselves seemed to become a rarity.

Even the packing and the move itself did not quite compare, although the last few days were frantic and adrenaline-driven. Working to tight deadlines. Little sleep to be had. A long journey northwards, following a full day of physical labour. We drove into the night, knowing the end was near.

The hardest part, although not by a long shot, was saying goodbye. Not so much to the place that's been our home for the last five years, but to the friendships forged there. Work colleagues. Families we've known through baby classes and toddler groups. And, most painfully, a church where we've found so much love and acceptance. Whenever anyone said how much they would miss us I felt such a surge of guilt, humility and poignancy. It was immense.

Although not especially sad to move on, I found myself leaving a piece of myself behind. A piece I can live without, but a small part of me nevertheless. It belongs now to the people who cared about us, the people who will stay in touch and hold on to the memories we've shared together. It will be with them for as long as they remember. Just as the piece I hold of them will stay with me until I forget.

Life at Sea

 

Our vessel is 20 foot long and moors just around the corner from us with others of her kind. At full capacity she holds about half the contents of our home. 

It feels as though we've been at sea since January, when we first started loading her up with our possessions, by the box-load. But the real voyage is still to come, with journey's end in sight, just three weeks away. 

For a long time we've ridden the tides of uncertainty, navigating the seas of limbo and waiting. Now our course is set and this is the homeward stretch, although I know the most challenging part of the journey is yet to come. 

Soon we will empty our vessel and she will contain someone else's belongings. It will take a far bigger vessel to transport our whole life northwards.