The Misadventures of Moving Back Home

So I was going to write a super sappy post about how we locked the door for the last time on our first home together this weekend, and the marathons of memories we have in our tiny condo, and just how sad and happy we are at the same time.

But moving back in with parents is much funnier. And since I’m currently distancing myself emotionally from the pain of moving away from this town I’ve called home for the last 23 years, I think writing about the adventures of moving home is a much better approach.

For reals, you guys, this could be a reality TV show. Or at least a really popular YouTube series.

For example, my dad doesn’t like anything to touch the floor.

I’m not kidding.

My parents just had laminate floors installed all through the house … laminate because IT CAN’T BE SCRATCHED. Seriously. This stuff was made to withstand destructive toddlers wielding pint-sized pitchfork-type toys and sippy cups full of all kinds of staining liquids. And also mommy’s wine, because I just assume if you have a pitchfork-wielding two-year-old, you’re also holding a glass of wine. That will spill. Everywhere. Our house has neither toddlers nor much wine, but it doesn’t matter. “Scratch-proof” must just be a marketing gimmick … or you would assume so if you lived in my house.

Anyway, my dad – being the lovable but incorrigible obsessive compulsive that he is – is determined to let absolutely nothing scratch the new floors.

So we hopscotch around the house and all of our things are piled and stacked on a pattern quilt of area rugs. Nothing touches the floor. It’s really impressive, actually.

I think my worst fear about this whole “living with my parents again” thing is that we’re going to somehow give off the impression that we are not the put-together, responsible, ready-to-move-away-and-really-be-on-our-own-like-in-grad-school young adults that we are. I mean, we’ve been married 3 years. We’re landlords now, for goodness sake.

But then things happen that even make me doubt that we’re really as responsible as we think we are.

Like when I accidentally give my little sister food poisoning on the first morning I’m living at home again. I mean, to be honest, Price and I ate the exact same thing (breakfast sandwiches with eggs & fresh basil) and neither of us felt any worse for the ware … but all signs point to food poisoning. But really – who gets food poisoning from fresh basil?? Apparently that’s the family consensus. I’m not entirely sure I agree, but who knows. Blame falls to me … fairly decent home cook who on many an occasion has cooked much more complicated meals for family & friends, none of whom has ever gotten food poisoning.

It’s like the time when, as a child, I tried to bake cookies in an aluminum pan in the microwave. It blew up. This was well before my baking days, but there’s nothing like cooking in the same old kitchen to bring back bad habits, right?

And then there was the time this morning when Price let our 15-year-old cocker spaniel outside and then forgot to let her back in when he left for work. Two hours later, I get a series of frantic texts from my mother (in Florida). 95 degrees and no water do not a happy puppy make. Of course, my sister is the one who found her … panting and sad outside the back door. My sister is clearly bearing the brunt of our re-habitation on Hickory Lane.

The best part is probably that we’re only on day 3. DAY 3.

Heaven help us. Probably my parents most of all.

Truly though, I’m not sure I could ask for parents more gracious or a sister more accommodating. We are – suitcases and leftover furniture and developmentally-challenged kitten cat and all – a mess and they are willing to put up with us for the better part of a month. That’s family. The best kind.

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