We've been settling in to the house in town for a couple of months now. I think I will still be adjusting to town life for another year or so, but it is amazing how fast we acclimate to new surroundings. Most of my concern and worry centered around my kids. Collectively, I've moved dozens upon dozens of times; I'm actually quite skilled at adapting to new places. But we moved to the farm in 2007, when my kids were 3, 9 months, and still incubating. The farm was the only home any of them remembered, so I have been watching cautiously for signs of stress and trauma.
Cooper had been lamenting about his woefully small bedroom since he was old enough to communicate clearly, so he was fully on board with the new bedroom which roughly tripled his play area. The move placed him right next door to a built-in buddy that he met this summer on his baseball team. We were painting one afternoon with the windows up when I heard this shout through the screen: "HEY COOPER! WANNA COME OUTSIDE AND RIDE BIKE?" Cooper was playing on the floor in the hallway and shot up like a bullet. He hollered, "YEAH! I'M COMING!" And out the door he went. I had to take a moment to ponder the awesomeness. He had never had access to other kids that way before.
It reminded me of two of the best years of my own childhood when I lived in a tiny little house in a tiny little town in northern South Dakota. Renee Brandner lived across the street and I spent two blissful years climbing her apple tree, dancing to Simon and Garfunkel's Cecelia in her living room, eating whatever amazing hot dish her mother put on the table, and sleeping on piles of pillows on the floor of her bedroom. She was my first best friend, and was so important to my youth. I am so happy that Cooper will have that opportunity.
The girls now have to share a bedroom, which thrilled Carys and caused Emma to shoot searing laser beams in my general direction. There is a "secret reading nook" in this fabulous house, though, so we gave it to Emma along with some bean bag chairs and a fully stocked book shelf which soothed the savage teenager looming inside, at least temporarily. Emma is my most conflicted, which is not surprising given her age. She is young enough to appreciate the social opportunities that town has to offer, but old enough to recognize that she is giving something up in the process. The farm is still for sale, so we make periodic trips out there to clean before a showing or move additional items to town. On one recent trip, I was turning into the driveway when I heard a small choking sob from the seat next to me. Emma was trying (unsuccessfully) to hold off the tears. She said, "I just miss this so much!" And all I could do was stop the car and give her a hug, because I know. I know. I miss it too.
The hardest moment for Carys came when we had to re-home the farm kitties. She had helped Mama Kitty give birth to four pretty little tabbies. She fed them, played with them, cleaned up after them and worried over them for nearly a year. We couldn't take 5 cats to town, of course, so we found a wonderful farm at a friend's house for them to grow up. The day we had to gather them, put them in a crate in the back of my car and head down the driveway almost broke me. She sniffled through the packing, dripped big salty tears all over their toys, and then climbed on to Aaron's lap and let those big wracking sobs take over while Mom drove away with her babies. (For all of you who thought I should let her come along...well...those cats did not take happily to crates. They were a snarling bundle of you know what by the time we got them in the car. I was more concerned that Carys remember Henry & Oliver as sweet lap kittens than as angry Toms, so I went alone. Two weeks later, we visited the farm where I took them, and Carys got to see them in their new home: fat and happy, and very excited to climb on her lap and cuddle. All's well that ends well!)
So. We live in town. Where cars throw light patterns on the walls at night. Where neighbors walk right in front of your house and stop in at random moments to say hello. Where there is no apple tree, no raspberry bed, no greenhouse or garden. Where the grocery store is actually a possible solution to being out of an ingredient, and where the Dairy Freeze is blessedly three blocks away. Where we can fish in our back yard, build sand castles, have friends over, and go cosmic bowling at the Bowl Mor on Saturday nights.
I still miss the quiet peace of farm living, but I'm glad I got the chance to give it to my kids for a while anyway. I certainly wouldn't trade the farm chores for the sandy beach I've got in my backyard right now. I'm anxious to spend the holidays in the new house, creating new memories and solidifying new patterns of normal. I hope the extra hour we have gained each day by not driving to and from the farm becomes time I can spend connecting with my kids, and that they'll be just as happy here as we were when we were there. I'm hoping they will feel the way I feel about all the homes my parents gave me growing up. Each one was special for it's own reasons, but we never really left "home." It is a cliche for a reason: home is really wherever you make it.
