Me and other half have been together four years, and we are on our fourth house. That is just stupidly ridiculous.
I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry, we aren’t rent dodging. Here is a bit of a breakdown:
Our first place was a one bedroom flat which we could barely live in ourselves. When I fell pregnant we made the decision pretty quickly to leave as we couldn’t stand how claustrophobic it already was, and knowing what I know now about how much shit small children just accumulate, it was definitely the best decision.
Our second, we were tricked by the landlord who assured us there was nothing wrong with the house we were moving to, only for us to discover mould growing everywhere within about 2 weeks (I was 7 months pregnant). He had conveniently painted over it and expected us to do the same, because that is the correct thing to do isn’t it.. I swiftly said no thanks, au revoir, dickhead.
The third was my absolute favourite but far too small again. We had no dining room space and O’s bedroom was tiny. We lived by the sea and the area was amazing, but we had decking in the yard which was an absolute death trap when it rained. We felt like we’d achieved something when we had made it back to the door without falling over when we took rubbish out, so very unsafe for little erratic legs.
We also really wanted a garden and an extra bedroom for future reference in case we ever decided to extend our family.
Because of all of this, you’d think we’d be pro at moving. Wrong.
This house move was by far the most stress inducing thing I have ever been through in my whole life, and if it wasn’t for our bumbling destructive little devil, I probably would have spent this whole week rocking back and forth in the garden mumbling to myself and listening to The Smiths on repeat.
We moved last weekend, and I still haven’t recovered. Isn’t it funny. When you move house, nothing feels right. All of your stuff is there but there is an emptiness that exists with a new house that you just have to fill eventually. Its like waking up in a hotel room, it’s lovely, but it’s not home.
Thank goodness for my mother who has kept me sane throughout this whole ordeal by looking after my son. How single parents with no family must do it is beyond me. You all deserve to be parents, I do not. I already spend 90% of my time trying to desperately drag Osc away from his new favourite discovery – plug sockets. Apparently all of the colourful + musical toys he owns aren’t as exciting as something that can electrocute you. When you start taking down your furniture and there are bits of wood everywhere and screws, you start to worry somewhat more than you would have before when you didn’t have anyone who would try to eat them.
All is over now though, and although it was a difficult day and we had to spend two days sleeping on my mothers couch so we could actually feed our child (another thing I didn’t think about. How on earth do you store cows milk without a fridge if you aren’t allowed to turn it on for 24 hours when it has been moved?! Nobody tells you these things you have to figure them out by yourself), we are in, and we are finally settled.
Although everything is magnolia, empty, half unboxed and slightly depressing, we have a huge garden and a conservatory which I am absolutely in love with, we are finally in the correct area to send Osc to the school we want him to go to, and I can really see this being a forever home for us. I am finally happy, and I can’t wait to bring my son up here