Don’t they say that moving is one of the most stressful life events after divorce, death and major illness? (To be honest, I looked this up on the Internetz and moving is not at the top of the list or even in the top 10. It clocks in at No. 32 or something after events like “sex problems.” Also on the top 50 list, pregnancy, jail term, beginning or ending school, and vacation. Good times for sure!)
There are plenty of reasons why this move is more stressful than others. MM and I are not just moving; we’re moving into a house in the suburbs that we own.
In some ways, it feels like we are jumping ship. We are leaving Chicago, and moving to what I call “The Illinois,” a place I never thought I’d live. Sure, the suburb we are moving to is no further from my downtown Chicago place of employment than our apartment in the Chicago neighborhood of Ravenswood Manor is, and our new ‘hood is rather urban for a suburb, but it’s a statement nonetheless—a statement that means (to a lot of people anyway)—you’ll be pregnant within five minutes of setting up your new residence.
Yep. That’s the elephant in the spare bedroom… so to speak.
Some people—mostly MM’s coworkers and friends—walk through our new house and say “Is this the baby’s room?” They think it’s funny, but some of them are dead serious because, that’s what you do when you buy a home and move to the suburbs. My friends don’t say that so much, unless of course, we’re having the baby discussion, which happens, but they at least don’t boil down the whole thing to a simple equation: “House+Suburbs= Baby.” Or maybe they just don’t do that to my face.
And perhaps it’s true. Maybe we’ll start having kids immediately. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe we’ll wait two or three more years. Or maybe we’ll decide the whole thing isn’t for us.
Sometimes I wish I had this biological clock ticking phenomenon that people talk about because it would at least make the whole thing a lot easier. I’d know, and when I know, I know. MM is pretty much on board with whatever—he says he wants kids. But sometimes I think that if I just sort of don’t talk about it, he’ll fill his time with so many other things that he wouldn’t notice that we don’t have them.
Sometimes I forget I’m an adult, and there’s no way people could possibly see me as a day older than 25, which technically is an adult (you know legal drinking, pay your bills, rent a car, commit a felony kind of adult), but not one who is settled, who has put down the roots. Not in my world, anyway.
Remember, you’ll blink your eyes and suddenly you’ll be here—settled. And here is a great place to be, even though I made it sound somewhat depressing. It’s really not.
And so those are my deep, disjointed thoughts on the Eve of Moving Day.