This weekend we travelled back to the familiar. I reflected on our drive down that I was never allowed to grieve over moving. The weekend we left Oregon, we celebrated LB’s second birthday, stayed up until 1AM cleaning the old house, got up at 7AM on Sunday and drove the remaining things to our new, tiny townhouse. On the way out of town, we pulled in to the doctors to get the second blood draw confirming the pregnancy and check the HCG doubling (being only 6 weeks out of a miscarriage, we watched the levels early on). With so much to be excited about and so many things changing at one time, I never had a chance to say good-bye. It felt like another of our weekend trips. Only one day, we didn’t drive back. I never considered how much this effected me.
As much as I snark on Oregon for their completely effed up politics, their lack of actual bonafied mountains, and the inability to let you pump your own gas, the place became home to me. I’ve lived a lot of places in my thirty years. But in the six years I lived in Oregon, we lived in three towns as many as 60 miles apart, and still we somehow made a home when I wasn’t looking. Somehow I liked the place I swore I wouldn’t stay. At some point, we made really good friends, found a place to raise our daughter, got used to waiting ten years for the old man to pump our gas. Somewhere along the way, we got comfortable.