As the Crow Flies

Big changes are ahead in the Paddock household. Well, that’s just it. The big change IS, in fact, the Paddock household. We’re moving. 

In my last entry I spoke of a house serving barely any purpose beyond being a box in which to store your crap. I conveyed my sentiment that the idea of home largely takes place outside the house. I still believe that. But who I am I kidding? I, the queen of nostalgia, the girl who fervently clings to tradition and ceremony…I, the girl who came home to this house after my honeymoon and conceived my child in this house… Yeah, I’d say that this house means a bit more to me than brick and mortar. 

This house is porous. A breathing, living thing. It knows our secrets and has sheltered us from the proverbial storm. It was the Open Window we climbed through to

begin our new lives as husband and wife, mother and father. It is our point of origin—like boomerangs we may venture out, but we always return here. I guess I don’t quite know how to wrap my mind around the fact that the Open Window through which we climbed  four years ago is soon to become a Closed Door.

Change is good. We aren’t meant to live life inside our comfort zones. I get it. But amidst the chaos and uncertainty this world offers, I have found myself seeking consistency, even permanency. Zach is a product of Eric’s and my affinity toward routine. In fact, he’s becoming downright OCD. I get him out of his crib in the morning; he turns on his light switch; we walk into our bedroom; he turns off our ceiling fan; we walk into the kitchen and pour milk into his glass bottle; he blinks and winces in anticipation of the noisy microwave door being closed; we warm his milk and return to our bed where he lies on the SAME pillow the SAME time every morning. Creatures of habit, every one of us.    Maybe it’s time to spread our wings a little. 

The truth is, we are only moving about 30 miles Southeast. In many cases, we’ll actually live closer to our valued friends and community. I’m thankful and I’m excited. But as I start packing, I will be boxing up memories, pieces of my soul. I will tuck away the laughter and tears that have echoed through these hallways and rest them upon the shelves of my heart. This house can never know what it has meant to me, what it has been to me. Like Silverstein’s “Giving Tree” I will return here one day. Of course I will. I will sit on the sagging front stoop and allow this old house to give us shelter once again.