Last weekend I
officially moved the last of my stuff out of my childhood home and also handed
over my credit cards to my partner because apparently I have to be an adult now
that my mommy doesn’t look after me.
Rude, but ok.
Since I’ve hit
the Great Wall of China made of writer’s block, I thought I’d give you a little
breakdown of my experience in moving in with my boyfriend and starter pack
family.
1. When did I become Jewish?
Look, I’ve always had a particular
interest in Middle Eastern politics and cultures, but I can’t say exactly when
I absorbed a shit ton of Yiddish slang and downloaded the Jewish holiday
calendar to my online schedule. I’ve
even reattached our missing mezuzah and started wishing colleagues “good
shabbes” on Fridays.
2. Teenagers scare the living shit out me.
If you don’t get this reference, we can’t
be friends. Or I’m significantly older
than you. I’m also saying this as
someone blessed with relatively good stepkids.
The worst mine do is steal my parking spot or create a stockpile of half
empty shampoo and conditioner bottles in the shower. And we can go for dranks. Good luck to the rest of you.
3. He might be mature, but that makes him more
stubborn.
I wouldn’t trade Mark for all the 30 year
old in the world, but I’d do a lot of bad things for an iota of flexibility on
his part. The picture below is titled “I
want a headboard”. You can deduce the
rest of the conversation from this point.
4. I have a lot of clothes.
My poor wardrobe has been dramatically
thinned since my move, because firstly, there’s not enough space for me to have
brought all of my clothes and secondly, I am no longer adding to my
wardrobe.
5. Swedish tribal music played on instruments made
from animal bones is a thing.
That is all.
Jokes aside,
this has been a massive transition for me.
Leaving my mom, my best friend, and everything I know in the South
(because it actually is really far to travel – going north never seemed so
bad). Moving my books and desk felt “final”.
I’ve realised that
I was clinging to my home with my mom because that’s where all my memories of
my dad are: Dad fighting a marmosette monkey to get the pool in summer, Dad
sleeping in his office chair or in the lounge with the newspaper next to him,
Dad falling down the stairs every second week, Dad’s shoes tripping me in the
lounge. It’s also where all my injuries
happened, where my sister and I grew up playing and where we lost everything in
a single night.
#418 is exactly where I fit in with effort. My party trick of sleeping through nuclear blasts turned out to be the best match for Mark, who games until early hours of the morning at his station in our room. My wardrobe and the girls’ are almost entirely interchangeable, as well as our makeup and beauty products.
#418 was already
a home when I got here. It just had a
Muffins-sized space available for me to fill.
I may have moved out from home, but I’ve moved into another. There is no discontinuity of the warmth of
home that I love most.
Wishing you love
and light ♡♡♡