Remember a year ago? When I admitted I hated our neighborhood and hated living here, and felt like the house was out to get me with the illnesses and the accidents and the breaking stuff? I forget, did I tell you that part? Let's pretend I didn't actually believe that. My husband, because he is a saint, told me that if I gave it a year and I was still miserable, we would move, even if it was a crazy thing to do.
Amazingly enough, just knowing that we could move in a year if I still felt awful was enough to make me feel better. Not perfect, but better. And then I gave it time, and effort, and patience, and things actually did start to get better. Gabe stopped going to school in our old town so I wasn't driving an hour every day to preschool, and I started spending time in our own community. Over the summer I walked around the neighborhood and took the kids to the park and the beach and met people and came out of my shell and made friends. I asked perfect strangers if they'd like to do a playdate or grab coffee, and with time, I found a little circle of friends. Josie and I joined a playgroup, I started a book club, I came to love our neighborhood. I came to be incredibly grateful for the move and the house and the changes we've made.
Don't get me wrong, I still occasionally go to our old neighborhood and look at the smaller houses, closer together, right on the subway line, with sushi and ice cream in walking distance, and I feel a tiny pang of sadness, but I am positive that this move was the right thing for our family. The right thing for my children, who already have so much more than I ever had in my life.
Just remind me of this the next time I sound like an ungrateful bitch, okay?