My monthly blog post is up at Inspire a Fire today. I reflected on our moving lifestyle, and why I don’t think we’re crazy. 🙂 Below you can read the start of the story and find a link to the full post.
I remember the day I realized I married a mover.
I’m not talking about a guy who drives a big truck and makes his money relocating other people. Corey wanted to move me. Every two or three years.
“It will be a great financial investment,” he said. “Plus you’ll get to live in a brand new house every few years.”
“Are you on drugs?” is what I wanted to say, but what came out was more like, “Can we explore our options before we decide on that game plan?”
I appreciated Corey’s goal. I understood that as a construction engineer, he could probably build a home economically, and we could make some money from its sale. But I was pretty sure he had grossly miscalculated the actual work of moving. And what about putting down roots and turning a house into our home?
I lived in the same house from birth to age 18. To me,home had a specific non-changing address.
I wanted to settle into a cute little bungalow where we’d mark our kids’ ever-changing heights in Sharpie on the trim of a doorway and spend summer evenings relaxing on a front porch swing.
But that was not to be.
It was with much self-pity that I reluctantly gave in to my hubby’s desires and packed up our first
little house. As I bubble-wrapped dishes and mourned the loss of our plum trees, I had to remind myself that it wasn’t the end of the world.
I survived that first move, and I quickly grew to love the new home Corey built, secretly (or maybe not so secretly) hoping he would not make me move again.
Head to Inspire a Fire to read the rest of the story.