So ... we have moved house.
It was all of the things I thought it would be ... and some.
If I thought I had got my head around moving and that I’d sorted through hard things and done the hard yards first... well, let’s just notch it down to another one of of my grief under estimations.
But, we have done it.
And so there is an element of celebration in moving into our own home (although if one more person tells me to be more excited, or how proud Pete would be, I’ll either cry or scream ... because I KNOW all of that ... stop trying to sugar coat it ... just agree it was hard for me!)
This is how is all went down...
After purging 4 trailer loads of stuff in the last month out of the house and shed, I thought the balance would be only everything we needed.
I was wrong.
I cursed Pete and my disorganisation at our other 47 times in the last 20 years where we had moved way too much clutter which meant I had to purge more than I should have, on my own ...
My magic sorting fairy who appeared every week for a month to declutter us was absolutely bloody amazing. She forced me to look at what I had and question whether I actually needed to keep it. She did not once force a decision - she simply asked me questions about its necessity in our life now. She was perfect. And together, we were ruthless.
Not rutheless enough, apparently, as I now have a 3 bay shed full of boxes ... a number of which I have now opened and said out loud ‘why did I keep this?‘ or ‘this doesn’t work in our new house...’
90 per cent of our house moved with removalists on the Thursday in about 5 hours.
The 10 per cent balance took about 800 hours on the Friday. It included some pretty serious ‘sheepyard language’ when I discovered a cupboard completely full and unpacked in a child’s bedroom after many ‘no, I’m packed, I’m done...’ statements...
But the villagers united and while many claimed not to be doing a lot, they appeared and boxed things, and carted things, unboxed things and made beds and sorted out dog pens, and shelving ...
And dear God, the rubbish they saw under furniture, the emotion they experienced, the deep breaths they saw, the laughs they had and gave, the organisation they gave me,the time they dedicated to me, the unusual places they put my kitchen things, the strange places I found them ...
But the drinks they enjoyed with me on the deck when it was done...
I accept I look like a train wreck, but these women and men ... again, for the berzillionth time since we all lost Pete, stepped up for me... I would not be functioning without them, and I certainly wouldn’t be moved!
I thought I was holding it together quite well... albeit there had been an serious explosion at children within 5 minutes of the removalists arriving because of sibling arguments over who was going through the doorway first... 🤦♀️🤬
We got through Thursday... tick
We slept in our own beds which had all been made by villagers who arrived, unpacked and made beds like machines to ensure we could have homeliness from Day 1 ...
Friday ... the second day of moving and all the enthusiasm and excitement and adrenalin of the day before had evaporated ... and by early afternoon the tears were flowing.
All because of a sign on the toilet that read: If it’s yellow, let it mellow, until it starts to smell. If it’s brown, flush it down, or Mum and Dad might yell.
It’s a sign Pete had written for the kids about 3 years ago. And I took it down and it tore. And I realised it would never be able to be written again. Because Mum and Dad won’t yell.
Dad isn’t here to yell anymore.
That was coupled with finding Pete’s sunglasses behind the office desk. His sunglasses and his wallet and watch were the things handed to me in blue plastic bags, along with jeans, boots and the shirt they cut off him on the day he died.
Picking them up and putting them in a box for some reason completely reiterated that this move was without him. The empty bedroom. The fact I was in the last throes of picking up the odds and ends of our life in that house and walking out ... I did a lot of standing in a room chastising myself and demanding I stop crying because people were there helping, they didn’t need to see me like this.
One of the village men busted me. He hugged me. Which was exactly what I needed. And only made me sob harder. Hugs from men I care about and and who care about me are some of the best things I get these days. And also remind me of what I don’t get to have every day, and possibly what I miss most losing my husband, a close second behind the conversation at the start and end of every day.
The villagers drank on the deck. We laughed. We talked. We debated. We all agreed the house is perfect and exactly what we need.
And it is.
The more time we spend here, the more things we unpack, the more it feels like home. And it’s only been a few days.
But every time I look at the expanse of the kitchen bench, the width of the open living area, the deck, the friends and family enjoying it all... the more sad I become because I know this is exactly what we wanted. Exactly what Pete wanted.
And he isn’t here to enjoy it.
And I know he would be happy we have it. He would be proud we have it. Excited we are enjoying it and all of the things everyone has said... it doesn’t take away from the fact I cried when I got into bed that first night because it was the first time in 20 years I had moved and he wasn’t getting into bed with me.
That I unpacked my clothing into a wardrobe made for two people and it was just my clothes going into it.
That I have a pile of photos in the hallway I need to put up of my husband with us rather than him being with us.
That I walked into our house on Thursday morning on the day of settlement and put a box of ashes on the bench which contained him, rather than him saying: ‘we are home, Sweet’
But if I am looking for upsides:
The backyard has been well used as a cricket pitch already.
Our furniture fits in perfectly - even all the things I bought online (unfortunately the ‘Temple and Webster hot delivery guy’ in Hamilton is a 40-something-year-old tattooed lady, who is lovely... )
The game of ‘find the colander’ in the kitchen yielded some very funny finds like tins of food in drawers and baking trays in the furthest drawer from the oven.
My villagers continue to astound me with their love and support of us ... and I will never be able to thank them enough.
The cat has become more than accustomed to lounging around and making himself at home...
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