There is something about becoming a Mum that has made me deeply sentimental. It seems those raging pregnancy hormones that hit me like a tonne of bricks in the first trimester, the ones that had me blubbing at the mere hint of a Lotto commercial, are here to stay. This new found emotion sees me getting misty-eyed on a daily basis!
So when we purchased our very first home last week, once the “it’s ours” euphoria started to ebb, I realised just how much I am going to miss our lovely rental that has been home for the last 17 months. We moved in to the home just 38 days before the arrival of our little man. Me: heavily pregnant. Mr. Mac: doing all the heavy lifting.
Yesterday we finished the tedious job of cleaning the house from top to bottom, ever hopeful of getting our rental bond returned in full. Once the oven and shower where clean, the carpets vacuumed and windowsills wiped, I took a wander around the empty rooms, and the memories came flooding back:
The little room at the end of the hall, that I rearranged for days, getting it just right for the arrival of our first baby.
The shower I stood in, water beating on my back, Mr. Mac standing in the doorway timing my contractions. Excited, anxious and unsure on whether or not this was ‘it’.
The front door we left through as a couple and returned, days later, as a family of three.
The bedroom I learnt to navigate in complete darkness, not bothering to turn on a light for those frequent night feeds.
The window in the kitchen that I would look out of during midnight pumping sessions, thinking we really must get a blind and wondering if some creep with a lactation fetish was peeping in at me.
The living room where my little man took his very first steps, a gorgeous mix of wobbly baby and delighted squeals.
The walls that I pressed my back to, as I sat on the ground and sobbed, thinking it was all too hard and I was not meant to be a mum.
The bedroom window I would peer out from, willing Mr. Mac to come in to view, on the really bad days when I just needed a break. Or a shower. Or a pee! Then the same window I would hold my little man up to, as he squealed in delight, chanting ‘dada, dada, dada,’ as he spotted his Dad’s van.
But it’s ok to say goodbye, to move on. Those memories don’t stay with the house, they follow us, to our next home, and our next and our next. Until one day we look back at the photos of our baby, impossibly now a fully grown man, as he had his first bath in the sink or rode his trike in the nude down the hall. “Where was that taken?” someone will ask. And we’ll close our eyes and smile, and remember that happy little home on Upham Street.