Moving has become something I’m really good at. The packing, the heavy lifting, the house showings, the organizing of literally everything you own. Yeah no, I’m actually really bad at it, and avoid as much of it as I can get away with. Mainly by pretending it’s not actually happening. Sometimes faking a lack of muscle (secret’s out). But, I’ve had a lot of experience with it within the past couple years.
I’ve moved four times in the past three years. The domino effect of all moves was in 2012, when my family moved to Shanghai for two years. While I was away at university, my parents and younger sister travelled around Asia (no jealousy whatsoever, I got to write papers. And eat cafeteria food. And share a bathroom with 14 other girls.) as a part of my dad’s job. In 2014, they moved back to Ontario and bought a new house in the same town I had grown up in. Then this summer, my childhood home went back up for sale. And that’s where we will be moving back to.
It all feels weirdly parallel: the summer before university I moved out of the house I grew up in. The summer before my last year of university, I move back into the house I grew up in. But, if I’m honest, moving is the worst. And by “moving” I really just mean “house showings”.
The first day of showings, I woke up, came downstairs and was greeted by… nothing. This concept of hiding everything so it looks like nobody lives there was lost on me. Kleenex boxes were hidden (cause God forbid it look like we actually use those); coffee machine disappeared (“are you trying to kill me”), and flowers were added to really up the ante (and my allergies).
Every morning, my sisters and I would be rushed out of the house, someone usually yelling “HIDE THE DOG!” (like the hiding of tissues, apparently dogs are also unwelcome) and we’d shuffle our dog, Sadie, into the garage. It was literally like we were hiding a fugitive. My dad would be scrubbing away at the evidence of paw prints, while we carried a blanket-covered crate into the car, casually waving at the unsuspecting visitors as they were guided into the house. I don’t mean to brag, but we could totally kidnap a nine-pound dog.
We also became well known at various Tim Horton’s or Starbucks. The employees of both must have thought I was a hot mess, mainly because I had been rushed out of our house minutes before, grabbing anything I could find that wasn’t pajamas. A lot of the time we’d creepily park our car as close as the house as possible so we’d still get our Wi-Fi. Priorities.
Other times, we’d hang outside of Chapters:
So, we’ll be back in our old house. Most likely recreate the picture of us on the steps. I think I’ll go without the doll, however, we’ll probably vote for Sarah to wear a green tracksuit, as pictured above.