So. Here we are. By the time you read this, we will have spent the last night in our current house.

By all accounts, this is one of those big moments in a family’s timeline. And yes, we are all very excited about this. The newness! The extra space! The dedicated play room that–say it with me now, HALLELUJAH–actually holds all of the kids’ crap!

But as I pack up all the things–all the memories–that this place still holds, it’s got me feeling all sorts of ways, not the least of which is, well, sad.

This was our baby house. The one whose hallways I have stumbled down on hundreds of nights, shuffling sleepily toward the sound of crying babies.

The one whose walls have seen me sleepless during some of the hardest moments of my life, and then welcomed me back when I was whole again.

This was our baby house. The one whose hallways I have stumbled down on hundreds of nights, shuffling sleepily toward the sound of crying babies.

The one whose walls have seen me sleepless during some of the hardest moments of my life, and then welcomed me back when I was whole again.

The one whose walls have seen me sleepless during some of the hardest moments of my life, and then welcomed me back when I was whole again.

Where I learned what it really means to worry that maybe it’s not going to be okay, and then learned again how grateful–grateful down to the marrow of my bones–one can be when you realize that it is.

Where I learned what it really means to worry that maybe it’s not going to be okay, and then learned again how grateful–grateful down to the marrow of my bones–one can be when you realize that it is.

It’s the house where I learned to be a mom–first of one, then two, and now three. And where I learned, as I take in my nursing baby’s sweet and soft profile, just how I ever could have questioned that having fewer than these three crazy, beautiful souls, would have ever been enough. (And in fact, where I wondered out loud if it was even enough. For the record, IT IS.)

It’s the house where I paced and paced, pondering if I should, and if I could be brave enough, to trust my gut—actually trust it–for the first time, and then go with it.

It’s the house where I made peace with, and learned to love, being a not perfect, but good-enough mom.

And what gets me the most is how much the kids have changed since we moved in. First and most obvious, we now have two more than when we started. But I need to look no farther than my son’s sweet profile to see visual proof of time’s relentless march, from the round cheeks and drool-stained chin of 10 months, when we moved in, to the long muscled legs, the big boy teeth, and most notably, the newfound stubborn independence of five and a half years.

God, I know it’s only four walls and some flooring, but when you think about it, really take in all the magic of these past five years, it’s actually so much more.

So this post isn’t dedicated to showing pictures of our new and shiny and future house; it’s for the run-down, torn-up and loved-up one that we got the privilege of calling ours in these years–those most precious years of our lives when we built our family. The one whose wood floors are warped from sippy cup spills, whose baseboards are chewed up from the plastic wheels of push toys, and whose furniture is decorated with the handprints of little teetering bodies first learning to balance.

This post is for the place where it all started. The house that holds more love than I ever, ever thought could be contained within four walls.

Sure, we’re ready for our next chapter. But this one will always have been the sweetest.

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