Roll The Tape

A journey of three thousand miles begins with a single box

Whaaack. Whaaack. Hammer in hand, sweat pouring down my face, I am quite literally tearing down my children’s house. Plank by plank, screw by screw, I’m succeeding where no hurricane could. We originally built it on Super Bowl Sunday a few years ago, drilling and nailing to the background of cheers and excited shrieks. Today, I look over and see my two oldest girls bawling as I raze their playhouse full of priceless memories and moments.

Our family is moving, and I’m reminded of all the work, the emotions, the boxes, the tape, the decisions of pack/trash/donate. And the stuff. My god, the stuff. And, of course, the stress. Add in a sprinkle of anxiety, fear and the unrelenting question of, “Are we doing the right thing?”

Long story short, we made the call to move from Florida to California. The reasons, causes, variables and factors don’t really matter anymore. What’s done is done. The house is sold, the internet shuts off in a week and I deleted the Publix app off my phone. Now comes the excruciating moments of painful goodbyes, relentless unease, and physically relocating your life more than 2,800 miles.

“Can we take our toys?” Of course, I tell my daughter Ella. “How about the dogs?” Yep, them too. “The pool?” No, it’s a bit too heavy for the moving truck. Trying to make young children understand the general concept of moving is unbelievably challenging. (There are actually quite a few books for children on the very subject.) A new school, a different home, future friends—it’s all so overwhelming and scary. Every time I explain a new facet to this transition, I realize that without a doubt, this will be the most difficult period in my life. Every decision we make, every choice, it all affects three other humans and two dogs that only know the trust, love and security they find in you.

But no pressure.

However rare, the brief moments I’m not worried about my family, I reserve for my own fears. Where will I get groceries? How far is the kids’ school? Which neighbor is going to curse me under their breath when my dogs poop on their lawn? It’s all trivial stuff, but us humans are built on routine, familiarity and comfort. New is hard. And scary. And so uncertain.

With each box we pack, tape and label, our house feels less like our home. Family photos and artwork lean against baseboards, revealing faded off-color shapes on bare walls. Empty corners and hallways echo stories of first steps, toddler tantrums and smiles too fast to be caught on camera. Our family started here, but like every other book you can’t put down, that chapter ends now and a new stanza begins.

It’s easy to wax poetic when all is said and done. You really don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone. But it’s a new day. A new life. New places and spaces to make more memories. I try to stay positive as the tears well with each passing hammer blow. The playhouse is no more and gnarled pieces of wood scatter the backyard. This sucks and there’s no way around it. My girls run off to their rooms, savoring the last few peaceful minutes before the chaos of the next few weeks.

Our time in Florida was never planned. It wasn’t on our roadmap or pictured in our dreams when we said, “I do.” But it became home. Neighbors, fellow parents and coworkers became confidants and best friends. We found love, happiness and joy in a home of countless memories. And we grew there. Babies became kids. Puppies became dogs. Mommy and daddy just kinda surrendered. (Just kidding, but not really.)

One last look in all the rooms. Only a few dust bunnies and empty rolls of tape. A tiny metal ring with a single key is all that remains. The kids are already on a plane and I drew the short straw of driving the dogs across the country (again). Hollow, lonely and numb, I make peace with a life ten years in the making and try to put one foot in front of the other. Our front door closes one last time and the open road awaits.

My dogs stare at me in complete confusion as the tires roll down the road. “Everything is going to be OK,” I keep telling them, myself and anyone who will listen. But truthfully, I have no idea. I turn up the volume, letting Sarah McLachlan guide me into the sunset.