Moving Day

My most vivid childhood memory is waking up in the pitch dark, grabbing my Winnie the Pooh and my pillow, bundling into the car, turning around to look out the back window and saying goodbye to our house.

It’s not a vivid memory because of the import of the moment, it’s vivid because of its frequency — we moved out of state almost every year. The longest I lived anywhere while I was growing up was three years. (Shout out to Denver!) Each and every time, I didn’t want to move. I had friends, soccer teams, dance classes and a home I loved.

We drove the family station wagon to our new home, usually a drive of 2–3 days with the dog in a crate in the way back getting carsick, me getting carsick, and my sister and I fighting because one of us had crossed the imaginary line down the middle of the bench seat. My mom always gave us a bag of new activities to keep us occupied, including (when we were younger) a pack of band-aids that we’d stick all over the seats and ourselves. (Pro tip for travelers with kids!)

One of my favorite car memories was tying tiny, pink, doll ribbons all over the back of my dad’s head as he drove. He forgot they were there when we stopped for gas. (Or maybe he didn’t actually forget and went along with the game.) Either way, my sister and I roared with delight at the looks he got from the truckers!

After hours and hours in the car, long into the night, we’d arrive at our new house. No cell phone cameras meant we’d never even seen pictures (that includes my mom, by the way). This strange new house was so foreign. How could it possibly be our new home? My bed faced the wrong direction. There were different sounds that scared me in the night. It didn’t even smell like our house.

As an early teen, I was particularly pissed off and sad when we arrived at one of our new houses. When I turned off my light to sulk in private, my room lit up with glow-in-the-dark stars covering the ceiling. It was truly magical! It felt like my room claiming me, and I was so grateful to the previous child who left their stars behind.

What a wonderful moment for gratitude. To this day, I try to remind myself that you never know where you might find stars.