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Space: the Futile Frontier?

Space: the Futile Frontier?

You may remember that we decided to move about eight months ago. Eight months later, here I am, sitting in my same living room in my same house, looking out at my same backyard. To quote the infamous Arnie Grape in one of my favorite movies: “We’re not going anywhere!” All that mental anguish over leaving the home where I’ve raised my babies since infancy for nothin’.

We jumped with both feet into the seventh circle of you-know-what that is making a home “show ready.” And show, we did. We packed up five kids, two dogs and laundry basket after laundry basket of crud and killed hour after hour while strangers paraded through our home. We were repaid with mostly useless, mildly entertaining feedback.  My personal favorite was the couple who wants one more bedroom than our house has. Um…yes. So do we, actually.

I took comfort in each comment of “you have FIVE kids? Your house is immaculate!” Oh, friends, I took each of those comments and tucked them in my pocket to pull out on days that it looks like a giant reached down and briskly shook our house like a big, brick snow globe.

God, give me the strength to accept the number of bedrooms I cannot change, the courage to change the flooring I can, and the wisdom to say “are you KIDDING ME? NO.” to the tire kickers. Amen.

So. Here we are. I am about 50/50 on relief that we don’t have to move and terror that seven of us still live in this clown car of homes. Oh, and because I am full of good ideas, I decided that what we really, really need right now is a kitten. Because: masochist.

In all sincerity, he is the sweetest, most adorable little ball of delightfulness in all of feline Christendom. He’s just perfect, and we love him. So, no regrets. Just dubious timing.

Jump in the clown car, Mufasa. We create space here where space does not exist.

Mu

As we move our ten pounds of stuff from our storage unit back into our proverbial two-pound bag, I have become creative about how to re-re-combine our two households into one. If you’re newly married or just delaying your household merge, maybe these hard-learned lessons can save you a few hours of rocking back and forth in the fetal position.

1) If you haven’t used it in a year, RUTHLESSLY PURGE IT. Seriously—box it up for Goodwill or sell it. In 365 days, you’ve marched through all four seasons, my friend. You’re not going to use it. Don’t you lie to yourself. You know it, and I know it. Purge.

2) Don’t completely eradicate your children’s memories of their pre-blended life. Be sensitive to the fact that things that may bring back sticky memories for you might hold dear memories for your children. In the same vein, don’t be afraid to hang on to a few pictures of you and your ex and your kids together. Don’t put them out on the mantle, for crying out loud, but in most cases, your kids will someday appreciate the gift that is permitting them to keep the memories they choose to keep–not just ones you choose for them.

3) Can’t decide between “mine” and “yours”? Sell ‘em both and get “ours.” Is your 4-slice toaster really that much better than his? Does it matter that his knife block has a filet knife, and yours doesn’t? Does it? If you’re at an impasse, then sell both and get something you can agree on. The trick is agreeing. If you are incompatible shoppers (you know who you are), then please ignore this advice. For the good of salespeople everywhere—please.  I’ll just be over here enjoying my new 72-speed mixer, while you guys fight it out over whose whisk is better…

4) Foster philanthropy in your greedy little children. If your precious womb-fruits are anything like mine, they are hoarders. Hoard-ers. I can’t throw away so much as a rotten banana without my children bemoaning some far-out sentimental reason we have to keep it. My strategy? Guilt. Guilt those little packrats. Remind them that there are people in the world who have NOTHING. Let them take some of their own things to a shelter or Goodwill and then really make a BIG deal about how someone less fortunate will be forever changed by the gift of their soccer cleats from three seasons ago. Soon, they’ll genuinely catch the generosity bug and give more freely and practically. It’s a slow process, but it works.

5) Purging. Never. Stops. Any chance you get, clean out your junk drawer. Attack your attic. Gut your garage. You’re never done, y’all.  It’ll creep back up on you before you know it.  Don’t let your “stuff” rule you.

5.5) Pray for my husband, will you? Bless his sentimental, hanging-onto-things heart. He married a ruthless purger. Thankfully, we love each other so much, that I will happily overlook his box of antique cell phones if he lets me throw away 30 or 70 pairs of his old flip flops.  I may or may not have a 50 pound box of memorabilia from my pageant days, and he has not so much as uttered a word about it.  Offer grace to your family and accept it back from them.

Good luck creating your own space where there is no space. It’s not futile if you are patient with your family and relentless in your pursuit of order in your chaos.

“All things should be done decently and in order.”—I Corinthians 14:40

Barely Moving

Barely Moving

I am sure you have all heard sayings and motivational speeches that talk about how change is this special, wonderful thing that happens in life and you just float along on a magic carpet driven by a team of unicorns, blissfully waiting to see where life will take you next. “Embrace change.” “Change is good.” Umm…no. No, it’s not. Change is a horrifying, fire-breathing monster, just waiting for people like me to come along and stumble into its jaws. That’s how it feels to me. I know, I know. That’s not exactly the case. Some of the best things in my life have been a result of change that petrified me at the time. Becoming a mother was a scary change. Becoming a mother of two, getting re-married, becoming a step-mother, changing careers—all incredible blessings in my life that seemed like gaping holes of potential failure to fall into at the time. When I am faced with change, my brain and my body team up to create a panic so mighty that I can barely move. I pray and I hold onto promises that I know are true—God has plans to prosper me and not to harm me. God knew what my life held before I was even born. His love is bigger than any circumstance of any kind. I know this. I do. So why can’t I adapt to change more easily?

That brings me to the latest change in our household. We are out of room. Out. We have a little girl who is sharing a bedroom with two of her brothers. The clock is loudly ticking on that one. On a half-whim, half-wish about a week ago, I checked the real estate list that we receive every couple of days from the last time we decided it was time to either move or build on (soon after which I spun into a panic and went to my go-to strategy of “Never mind; let’s just ignore the problem. Wheeeee!”) I emailed a few potential houses to my husband with the usual attitude of “Meh. These are okay.” And then—I saw it. A house that had almost everything on our wish list, at a great price and in a beautiful neighborhood. Oh, man. Before I had time to talk myself out of it, I emailed our realtor (who has the patience of a saint) and asked if we could see it. On the way there, I talked myself out of it pretty handily. “Too far from school.” “Too many trees.” “Too far from Target.” As soon as we stepped in though, it felt right. Maybe not even the house itself, but the process. I need God to practically hit me over the head with a blinking sign sometimes before I can shut up the Doubt Committee in my head and move forward. I am panicking hardcore about this move, BUT whether we get that house or not, and whether it happens in a month or a year, I can feel God breathing His will into our plans so far, and that helps.  You guys, I rented a storage unit yesterday so that we can box up our excess stuff and stage our house to put it on the market. Me–the Anti-Change! The goal is to make it look like a normal family could move right in, instead of potential buyers thinking “This is like the clown car of homes. How many people live here?!?” That 10×15 rented room makes this all real. That’s so scary.

Last night in the shower, I had a good, long cry about the process (I have my best emotional breakdowns in the shower—highly recommend it). I let myself be sad about the thought of leaving the home where I rocked and snuggled and loved on my newborn babies. I let myself mourn the loss of the beautiful yard and trees and peaceful neighborhood where my kids learned to ride bikes, and grew from sweet, helpless infants to lovely, capable children–almost overnight. I will miss our friendly, considerate neighbors and the long, summer walks around our circle. I will miss the “Fire Truck Parade” every 4th of July. I will miss sitting under our covered patio, watching thunderstorms roll in. I’ll miss roasting hot dogs in a fire pit that is entirely too close to the house. It all hurts to leave behind. That said, I know that there are equally wonderful memories to be made wherever we wind up.   I may be leaving the house I’ve called home for so long, but I’m taking what’s in it. Yes, I’m talking about my shoes.

Okay, okay…fine. I’m talking about my family.

So here’s to moving when you’re barely moving, and trusting that it will be wonderful at the end of the unknown. We would appreciate your prayers for God’s continued guidance as we figure out how to pack up our circus and where to set up our tent.

In the meantime, we’ll take ALL your empty boxes, please.  Another 97,000 should do it.