When starting a blog, it is important to keep your readers engaged with regular posts and updates.
Sorry for the radio silence, but we’ve been moving house. A task thus far which has been both enjoyable and vomit inducing stressful. I know I’m not the only one who has moved house in later pregnancy, particular shout out to the lady with the pram in Wilkinsons who sympathetically told me she was 32 weeks when she moved house, just by looking at my overflowing basket of toilet roll holders, lampshades, Flash wipes and a darling chevron print bath mat.
The whole experience has been really stressful, as is to be expected, but since we viewed the house over 2 months ago, it has been pretty hairy. A week after we had given our notice at the old house, the letting agent rang to say that the current tenants were refusing to leave. Apparently they were in the middle of trying to buy a house, and they weren’t going to exchange contracts in time. My heart went out to them, for approximately one idontgiveashit minute.
Luckily my landlady is lovely and was completely accommodating to the change, which then turned out not to be a change at all, as we ended up moving into the new house on the original date but not after having to pay an extra 4 days rent because they messed up the dates, and not after me exploding down the phone to the letting agent after they left me a breezy voicemail at 5pm on the Friday, when we were due to be moving on the Monday, that we couldn’t actually move in until the Tuesday. Just as an FYI, turns out crying pregnant ladies tend to scare people into doing what they want.
So with the help of Tom’s dad and brother, Capital One and an electricity and gas bill rebate, we have what I would consider a home.
I hate moving house, which is weird as this one will now be the 15th house in the last decade, but this was a bit more significant than the others. The little house I was leaving wasn’t just a house, in my mind it was my first home. I first moved there after a crappy break up 3 years ago. I was 29 and desperate to not end up in shared accommodation again. I was able to find a little one bedroom cottage which I fell in love with instantly. I hate the phrase ‘find yourself’, it sounds so false and hippy. But that’s what happened when I moved in. I arrived a nervous, slightly damaged girl, terrified of being on my own and loathing my own company with nothing but my clothes and a picture frame and clock that I had defiantly bought post break-up.
I think there is definitely truth the the saying that you have to be happy in your own skin before you can be happy with anyone else. For years my MO was simply ‘not being on my own’, pretty much whatever the cost, I looked to boyfriends for validation, I had incredibly low self esteem and the idea of a quiet night in on my ones scared the crap out of me. I stayed in shitty relationships well past their sell-by-date just because I didn’t want to be on my own.
My mum came down and helped me get the new house together, we bought furniture and put up pictures and mirrors and kitted out the kitchen, and together with my best friend had a flat-pack party. We had a blast. It was like a dolls house but I got to stay in it and it was all mine. Then it came for my mum to go home and I was terrified. I couldn’t do this?! How do you Council Tax?! When is it green bin day?! I’M GOING TO BE ON MY OWN!!
It was like a switch, mum left, and I sat down with a glass of wine (I really miss wine), and it was okay, I even enjoyed my first evening on my own. It was the first evening of many where I sat in my little house, on my own, out of choice. Turns out a bit of independence was all I needed to become independent. I was there nearly 2 years before I met Tom, and I barely recognise the girl that moved in, so when it came time to leave, I wasn’t just moving house, you see. That place was more than a four walls and roof, that place changed me, or rather gave me the ability to change myself. When I got together with Tom, it wasn’t because I was lonely and didn’t want to be on my own, I didn’t stay with him because I wasn’t able to pay the bills without him, for the first time I was actually sticking it out with someone for the right reasons, which was pretty cool.
Looking at the house now, all empty, I see a bunch of memories, girlie evenings, evenings on my own, too much gin, not having to wash up because I didn’t want to and most of all, freedom. Freedom to work out who I was when it was just me, and to get to know that me, and actually realise, that I kinda like her sometimes.
I am now able to sit in my new home, which is twice the size of the previous house, probably the cleanest it’s ever going to be and it’s mine and Tom’s, which is really important. The old house, really, was inequivocabily mine, which is really tough when you’re the other person, so I’m really glad that this is Ours. Baba’s bedroom is currently a dumping ground, but that’s okay… we’ll get there, and everything else is coming together. I’ve spent too much money, but going from a 1 bedroom cottage to a 2 bedroom house with *gasp* TWO reception rooms means that we were seriously lacking in furniture when we moved in, plus, I’m making my daughters first home, and I want it to be lovely.
The living room and kitchen are probably my favourite spaces at the moment, so I thought I’d share a few photos that make me happy. I’ve managed to create a little reading nook too, with a chair I got on eBay for £10 with a custom made cover.
I’m still swooning over my découpage rabbit book ends and Alice In Wonderland coasters, and the fact that I have a coffee table now is all too exciting.
I can’t wait for baby to be here in our first family home, but my little house will always hold a special place in my heart as the home where I managed to become the Carrie that was able to have all that I have now.