Moving on (almost, sort of, not quite)

Recently we decided to move.  For reasons I now find difficult to recall.

We are moving for the first time since beginning our little family.  Eli has never known a room, other than the nursery we painted in gender neutral cream and green.  Paint colors chosen, not because the baby's sex was ambiguous.  We knew months before painting we were having a boy.  I chose the colors to avoid gender stereotypes.  Ingrained with the firm suspicion that averting blue or pink would allow our child to define himself apart from societal pressure.  Fanciful and ridiculous?  I know.

Photo by Studio Elise

After birthing Eli at the hospital, we decided a home birth would be the best fit for our second child.  More accurately, I insisted a water birth at home was the only way for me.  My husband conceded it was my body, my decision.  I birthed Sofia in our bedroom.  She came into the world, directly into my arms, and immediately fell asleep.

Sometimes I panic and completely forget all the reasons we decided this was a good idea.  I had no idea how attached one could be to a house, until breastfeeding Sofia a few days ago and the tears began to fall.  It completely took me by surprise.  Multiple times I complained about living in one place for too long, insisting I am built for change and excitement.  Now all I want is to stay here forever.  I love this house.  The unfinished molding, and painting that will never be complete.  The boxes my husband built for me in the backyard when I told him we were growing our own produce from now on.  The garden I tended for the first time, as I also cared for the growing child inside me.  The first steps, first words, first "I love you" from my son.

Can a place, a building, a structure be sacred?  All of a sudden, the unwashed dishes, and piling laundry look sacred in this place.  Maybe I'm having a mental breakdown, or just experiencing the natural grieving process.