Moving

Anytime that I think about moving I cringe. I've had to move quite a few times in my life, and I never enjoyed it. When I was about 28, I moved five times in one year! The short version of that story is:

• moved in with boyfriend after only dating for six weeks (of course in hindsight this is where all the trouble began in the first place).


• had to move into new place 3 weeks later, because boyfriend's apartment did not allow children on the third floor (we find out after I move in).


• 6 months later had to move out of that place because landlord is a crazy lady who is constantly knocking on our door and wanting to inspect our suite, yada yada.


• 4 months later break up with boyfriend (again, this all could have probably been avoided if I had only waited longer to move in with the boyfriend) and move back in with my parents.


• one month later I move into my own apartment.

One could say that I had definitely had my fill of moving after that. We moved around a few times when I was growing up as well. Most of the moves were not very far, but they were usually unexpected and not really by choice. My parents rented, so usually when we moved it was because we were given notice due to our landlords selling our our (their) house or deciding to move in themselves. There were a few times while I was in my teens that we ended up moving.

I can remember the anxiety that I would feel every time my parents told me that we were moving again. First I would be stressed about finding a new house in time before we had to be out of our current house. Let me tell you, sometimes it was close. I can remember one time that we found a house literally two days before we were supposed to move. Even as a child, I was the worry wart. As a 12 year old, I would be scouring the classifieds looking for a house, pointing out ads to my parents. They would always calmly tell me not to worry and that everything would work out. Well, we never ended up homeless, and everything did always have a way of working out.

One way or another, we always found a house. Then there was always the task of actually moving. I don't ever remember my parents hiring movers or even renting a truck. Somehow, people (and a truck or two) would always show up to help. Of course I would also worry about having enough help, and would grill my parents if they asked everyone that they could. I was always calmly told that everything would work out, and it did.

As much of a pain that moving is, there was always something fresh and new about unpacking in a new house. I always enjoyed setting up my bedroom just how I liked it. The space was totally mine to arrange how I liked. I also hadn't had time to get my room messy (as a teenager my room was constantly messy) and it always felt like a fresh start.

At times when we moved a little farther, I could even reinvent myself a little if I chose to. When I started grade 2, I moved to a new school. I decided that I wanted people to call me by my full name, Catherine, rather than by Cathy. My parents and family still called me Cathy. I signed all of my assignments as Catherine, and eventually everyone was calling me Catherine. All through elementary school people called me Catherine. The summer before grade 8, we moved to a new neighbourhood where I'd be starting high school full of students who didn't know me. By then, I felt like the name Catherine was too stuffy and pretentious (I apologize to anyone who goes by Catherine). I wanted to be a Cathy again, so my new school was the opportunity to change myself yet again.

Change can definitely be a good thing. How do I feel about moving now? I still loathe it. I still stress about finding a new place in time, about the movers and about getting everything packed in time. However, there is still a small part of me that likes setting up the new house and moving on with the next page of my life.