The move was harder on BC than I had anticipated. Even though he had been included in the process, had had endless conversations about the move in the months leading up to it, and had been encouraged to tell us what he was feeling about moving to a new home, it was still a change. A big change. The house we moved from was the house where he was born - literally - it's been all he's known of "home". And I can only imagine what that must be like for him. Truth be told, I was surprisingly emotional about the move myself. Don't get me wrong, I was and am elated to be out of that neighborhood, in a place where we can feel safe and comfortable, and well on our way to our ultimate goal of owning a sustainable homestead. But my son was born in that home - literally. It's the home where he took his first steps, had his first bath, at his first solid food, recovered from his first fever, and on and on. We were leaving behind a wall marked with dates and heights and others with beautifully random and meticulously intentional crayon and marker artwork. We were leaving behind many memories of late nights with a newborn, dreams of what the baby growing in my belly would bring, and fears at the thought of "starting a family". We were leaving behind so much.
Except we weren't really. Because all of those things (even the walls) are held fast in our memories. The things that I want to remember I will remember because of what they are, not where they happened. But still, the move was somewhat emotional, which made for some difficult days. Our solution was to go creek stompin'. Turns out it was just what we needed.