Now that we’ve told our favorite neighbors that we’re probably moving I can blog about our search for a new home.

It is difficult and I am very emotional about it all.

The last time we searched for real estate I was emotional too, but that’s largely because I was very pregnant for most of our home search. I remember going to a series of open houses the month before our son was born. I had to pee at all three open houses and it was terrible. After the baby arrived, we toted him along in the little baby bucket seat, which he hated. Sometimes he just screamed the entire time, even if I held him.

We looked at so many houses. We put in an offer on one and did not get it. Mostly we just saw house after house and shrugged our shoulders. Nothing struck us.

My husband came to the open house for our current home by himself. I had given up on real estate and refused to leave the apartment that afternoon, but he came back and said I really should see this one. We packed up the baby and I grudgingly let him drive us across the river to see this house.

I walked in and immediately felt that I could live here and that this could be home. The kitchen, the living room, the bedroom, every room and every floor.

I could live here. This could be home.

We moved in three months later and have been here ever since.

This time around the search for a new home feels harder in a lot of ways. Harder because we don’t actually want to leave this house. Harder because we won’t want to leave our neighbors. Harder because we’ve put a lot of money and work into this house and it feels like we’ve only recently got it the way we want it.

Harder because I thought we would never move. When I pictured myself trying to leave this place I would see the ending of The Haunting of Hill House play out in my head (the novel, not the movie or television series). Yes, this place is small, but it’s a good way to keep us from acquiring too much stuff. Yes, we need more space, but it’s nice to have forced family togetherness.

But the whole time that I was clinging to the walls of this house, things were changing.

The pandemic happened and work-from-home became a thing. Now my husband is able to work all day and still be home for dinner (life-changing!). That third room upstairs which was supposed to become our youngest son’s bedroom was pressed into duty as an office.

Our kids have shared a room for nearly a decade now–a room so small there is not even a foot of space between the two beds. They share the single dresser (two drawers each) and split the drawers under one of the beds (one drawer each) and the tiny closet. Their modest bookshelf creaks with exhaustion having been overloaded with Dog Man and Captain Underpants for years. New books do not fit; they are piled on top. There is no room for a laundry hamper.

Our favorite neighbors–the ones who have been a third set of grandparents for my kids for the past twelve years–admitted that they were thinking of moving to be closer to their actual grandchildren. I realized, I think for the first time, that they would not always be here.

I purged and organized and purged and organized this little house full of stuff. I got rid of so many of my beloved books because we had no space for them. I got rid of toys the same moment my kids outgrew them. I got rid of half of my clothes every year, culled small appliances, and donated piles of blankets and quilts that we simply could not store. I stopped to survey my years of work and realized that there was nothing left to get rid of. We simply cannot fit.

“It’s only six years,” I would tell myself. “Only six years until the first child goes to college, and the second not long after that. And then we’ll have more space than we need!” Except when they come home for holidays. Which I hope they do, maybe even with a girlfriend or boyfriend in tow. I hope they move back in for a little bit while they start their adult careers. Or what if the kids are moving back in just as our own parents are no longer able to live independently? Then what?

I have a friend who works in a hospital. Her job is to help people who can’t go home and live alone anymore figure out what to do. Sometimes that means a temporary rehab facility. Sometimes it means permanent residence in a nursing home. She sees so many elderly adults who should have gone into assisted living years ago but refuse to leave their homes.

“The worst mistake you can make as you age,” she always says, “is being too attached to your living situation.”

We have to move. I wish I had realized it sooner.

So we have a realtor and we are actively looking. We are so picky. We are no longer constrained by money (mostly), but we are constrained by geography. I refuse to make our kids change schools, and that limits us significantly. We both prefer older houses with creaky floors and lots of character. We don’t want to lose too much walkability. But we also don’t want to do any major renovations!

And, if all goes according to plan this will be our very last home purchase ever. The next move will be to assisted living, and that’s a lot of pressure! If it’s our last house, don’t we want it to be grand and nearly perfect?

Well, nothing is perfect. This house wasn’t perfect but we’ve been very happy, safe, and comfortable here. I just need to walk into a place and I’ll know.

I could live here. This could be home.