The seventh, and worst, sense (train of thought about place)

A sense of normal.

There it is. The last room in the townhouse is about done, which means we're finally unpacked and we can call this place home for a while. As Carly said, "and then we'll just move again."

This weekend, we got stuff to plant in the backyard. Tomatoes, peppers, figs. Yeah, figs. Carly says that the deck in the back of the house is the best part of the place, and I don't disagree. It's well shaded, off the main drag, and big enough for a small party to hang out. The greatness of the deck outweighs the other little foibles of the house.

Neighbors recognize us. They wave.

We went walking through the hood today, just to the store and then over to a nearby park where Wolfie went down the slide head first for the first time. He loved it, but got a little bit of a friction burn on his hands and we had to stop. The kid is interacting with the world in new ways every day. It's a riot. We're starting to hear subtleties in his weird words, picking out the differences between "sit" and "stairs" and "socks." Most of the time, it's a short sentence. "I sit," which means, "I want to sit down, here, now." It usually sounds like "OH SHIT."

There are a number of houses for sale in our greater neighborhood. Most of them are stupidly overpriced. Our neighborhood has been targeted by realtors. People keep leaving doorhangers or sending promo things or even knocking on our door--they go door to door in this hood--asking if we are interested in selling. We tell them we rent, and we just moved in, and they smile and leave. Then we get more letters.

I miss having the freedom of my own place. I also don't miss the obligations of paying property taxes and mowing lawns. Carly certainly wants to buy a house sometime. She talks about how she likes our neighborhood and is constantly checking real estate prices on Zillow whenever we drive through a new area.

I spent the first ten years of my life in a trailer at the edge of a trailer park. The next ten were at the house my parents still occupy. After that, it's been a new place almost every two years. Thayer. My folks' house again. Thayer again. Glenwood. Sugar Street. Raritan. Newark. Jersey City. The apartment on Georgia Ave. This place. It would be nice to not be a nomad anymore. I want the Wolf to appreciate having his own space, something he can rely on. Fewer permanent addresses.

And, on that note: