We're Out of Here

We’re Out of Here 

So yes, I moved the three of us out. We lived together, all 5 under one roof, for a grand total of 2 nights. The first time. But let’s stay with that first time we moved out for right now because I like what came of this part of the story. The morning after the second night crammed into one hostile house, I was going out of town with 2 friends, headed to a work conference overnight. The boys were going back to stay with their Dad for their week with him, and because of the conference they were going back 3 days early. That gave me 10 days to figure out what I was going to do because I knew for certain we were not going back to that house. I didn’t see much of the conference. I spent that Friday on my phone, searching for somewhere to move, answering calls from landlords who were looking for tenants. It was actually, in my mind, amazing how quickly and easily it all worked out. I found a place that was down the road from the kids’ schools, affordable and available immediately. I met with the owners as soon as I returned from the conference. They wanted a reference letter and a damage deposit. Done. Easy. We were in by the next week when the boys returned to me from their Dad’s. To tell you the truth, I can’t even remember if we actually had a break up when I moved us out. Or if we decided to keep trying to make it work, living separately. Or if we broke up for a while and then tried again. But I do know that at some point we were back together and continued through that time, in a relationship but living apart. It seems unreal now that I can’t remember this detail because when I was living it, the breakups were so huge. And they affected everyone in my life. They affected my kids who were relieved but were then also shuffled around to our new living spaces. They affected my family and friends who quietly hoped and prayed this was the final ending. What I do know is the boys and I were happy. I can picture the faces of the boys as we lugged beds and couches and all of our boxes into our new little home, a 30 year old townhouse on a quiet street, in the neighborhood I grew up in. We were so happy. Our dog was of course with us too. I didn’t have a bed for myself so I set up a mattress on the floor and then set to making my room comfy and pretty with string lights and white blankets and a new alarm clock that woke me up with songs from my favorite CDs. My oldest hung out with me every afternoon and evening after school, watching favorite shows on the couch together, talking about nothing and everything. My youngest had an entire unfinished basement to set up his hockey nets and gear, and every day he put his goalie pads and mask on and I spent hours taking shots at the net while we talked about nothing and everything too. We would even come home at lunch everyday and gear up for some extra hockey practice. I loved this time with them, and my memories are still so filled with happiness. The dog slept in my bed. The kids had everything they needed. Life was good. 18 glorious months. 18 months of just me and my boys in our own place, happy together. Stress free. Completely ourselves. I wish it would have lasted forever that time. I wish I would have been strong enough, smart enough, aware enough to make it last forever. I wish this would have been our happy ending to that dark time. But by the time those 18 months were up, we were only starting year 4 of 9. Still, I am so happy about those 18 months. That at least during that stretch of time, I feel like I was the mom I always wanted to be for them. And I hold those months close and hope that those experiences and memories together gave them as much or even much more than they gave me.