We’re in the process of selling our home and relocating. I can practically hear you thinking, “Oh, how envious!” because nothing screams fun like packing up a house after six years, with three kids underfoot. Trust me—it’s a rollercoaster ride.
“Aim to make it appear as if the potential buyers could live here, not you,” a real estate agent bluntly suggests.
So, I get the carpets cleaned and scrub every inch of the walls. Those nail polish stains, sticky handprints, and rogue crayon doodles? Thankfully, they all come off. I organize closets, donate old furniture, toss expired snacks (who knew applesauce had a shelf life?), and collect various loose coins (thanks, hubby), Lego pieces (courtesy of the kids), and travel-sized lotions (my stash). I even stow away the baby clothes and sleep sacks that are now too small, only to stumble upon a wave of nostalgia.
I unearth an old photo my partner snapped just hours before he proposed. There I am, eyes glued to a VHS case in a video rental store (remember those?), contemplating what to watch that night. I look so carefree and, dare I say, flat-stomached (ah, the good old days!). I linger over it for a moment before deciding to leave it on my dresser.
Next, I tuck away the framed pictures of the boys—some showcasing those adorable, chubby-cheeked baby faces that feel like a distant memory, while others capture the cheeky grins of toddlers. I hide the boys’ favorite bedtime stories in drawers and pack away the “daily sheets” from daycare—I’ve saved every single one. The water table? I reluctantly set it out on the curb, reminiscing about the fun times the boys had splashing around before this winter turned it into a cracked shell of its former self.
As I clear out my closet, I finally part with those skinny jeans. Liberation, thy name is decluttering! I toss my old law school notes but hold on to that overly optimistic college paper on The Social Contract, safely tucked under the bed. I let go of the rocking chair my mother used when I was a baby; one arm is broken, so I think it’s time to say goodbye.
I scrub, tidy, and conceal. I try to make it seem like we never lived here. But how could we not?
This is the carpet where my sons experienced “tummy time,” crawled, and took their first steps. Those are the hallways where we rocked our newborns to sleep. That roof deck? It was our escape when my spirited firstborn needed the calming summer air. And that front stoop? I spent countless hours there during maternity leave, soaking in the joys of new motherhood.
That scratch on the kids’ bedroom door? Yep, that’s from a tantrum my son threw after kicking it in a fit of frustration. And those scuff marks on the kitchen cabinets? They’re remnants of my boys zooming their bikes around the house during long, wintry days when outdoor play was a no-go.
And this staircase? It’s where I lay during my first labor, counting and timing contractions that marked the start of our family journey. We walked through that front door with each of our newborns, fresh from the hospital just four blocks away. The rocking chair in the corner? It was my sanctuary for nursing all three boys while “Baby Mine” played softly in the background.
Now, it’s time for us to move on. I know it’s good for us—a new state, fresh schools, new careers, and new friendships await. It’s exciting to start anew. But oh, how I’ll miss these playgrounds, these familiar streets, and the way my kids could navigate from home to school with their eyes closed. We can hardly stroll to the corner without bumping into a friend or neighbor—those connections have become our lifeblood.
Through this process of cleaning and letting go, I’ve come to realize something profound. It’s not about the bricks and mortar. It’s not the house that creates a home; it’s the love and memories we’ve built within these walls, and those will always travel with us. It’s not about material things or specific locations. They shape who we are, and we carry that essence wherever we go.
So, we’ll do our best to transform this house into someone else’s dream home. But for now? This is ours, and in our hearts, it always will be.