In one of my favorite books, one of the side characters is an older man, confined to a wheelchair, who is both an aging grandfather in the family and a retired workaholic investment banker. He spends most of the novel in his wheelchair, staring out over a beautiful lake near the border of Quebec Province and Vermont, not saying much and looking generally curmudgeonly. Most assume he’s pissed off at something, or tired of the family’s drama. Eventually, he tells us through dialogue that he is out there ‘doing his sums’. Readers and characters alike assume he’s out there reliving his glory days as a banker and going over his fortunes in his head. But near the end of the book, we learn that to him, ‘doing his sums’ refers to counting his blessings – all of the wonderful people and experiences and love he has been so lucky to have in his long life. He worked hard, yes, but behind the scenes he had been silently caring for those around him in ways that weren’t always obvious to outsiders.

When I first read the book, that reveal was one of my favorite surprises, as I had been taken in fully by the idea of an angry grandpa, weary of the world, ignoring his family in favor of wishing he could still be at work. I loved the idea that this man was reformed of his work habits and, towards the end of life, was spending more time in happy contemplation than in busying himself with what could have been. As I get older, I realize the importance of not only focusing on the good, but in finding the good among the harder moments. In taking a moment to recognize what is awesome about something that is also quite difficult.

Today, I’m applying that to moving out of our wonderful home, the one we’ve lived in for 11 years, Matt’s longest place of residence by 7 years. It is so easy to feel sad about the memories we’ve created here – we have so many darn good ones, and here we are voluntarily leaving them all behind. But I am choosing instead to celebrate them, and to be grateful to have them, and to find joy in knowing that we will have new memories, no matter where we live. So, more for myself than for you, dear reader, I record them here:

Our one, simple backyard tree swing, that the kids jump on every single time we walk out to the car

Ringing the dinner triangle to get kids to come running

Painting the roof of our front porch ‘haint blue’ to ward off evil spirits – a tradition I was drawn to after a visit to New Orleans

Our living room – starting as a library/study, transforming into a baby gear showroom, then a Fisher-Price catalog, a Thomas the Train rail yard, a Lego building zone, horse stable, princess castle town, Pixie Hollow, dragon rider adventure-land, fortress, laser tag arena, performance stage, and now slowly, but not slowly enough, turning back into a library, albeit with more sections than before

Backyard move nights with popcorn & M&Ms

My goodnight traditions with the kids, that I won’t go into so I don’t embarrass them, but which are surprisingly tied to the way our house is set up

Sitting out on the balcony we created off of our master bedroom after being inspired by how many homes had such areas during our first summer in Germany

So many mornings, the kids and I walk out our back door, across the back deck, to my car… in my mind I can see them doing this walk when they are 4 and 1; when they are 7 and 3, and now as they are 9 and 6, and every year in between…each stage with its own kind of smile

The time I was so tired and upset that I actually flung a (plastic) bowl of oatmeal at the curtains in our dining room – I am pretty sure I could still find an oat or two stuck to something over there

Giving Rowan a ‘tour of the house’ to calm his colicky screaming (this might be related to the preceding happy memory)

Our last three years with Jonah dog, our golden retriever and best friend – he never did like this house as much as the one in Indiana, nor was he particularly excited about the colicky baby that showed up shortly after we moved in. But he loved us and we loved him, and I can still hear his soft breathing sometimes if I listen hard enough, and I can still, sometimes, find some of his hair tucked into a neglected closet corner or nook

Naked babies running down the hallway after baths

Happy nights rocking, walking, soothing babies back to sleep…bottomless eyes staring back up at me when I would sneak a peek to see if it was working

So many breakfasts at our kitchen island…another place where I can picture my kids there at every age and stage

Backyard birthday parties

Walking, walking, walking our awesome neighborhood…so many trips down Erie Avenue…library, ice cream, school, happy hour

Nights reading to the kids, even when they were too little to even understand the words…moving into those magical days when we switch roles and they read to me in their sweet voices

The connected speakers Matt gave to me as a gift when Cara went to Kindergarten…understanding how quiet the house would seem with her and Rowan both at school

The windstorm that knocked power out to our area for a week shortly after we moved in…Matt was in China…Jonah and I eating by candlelight at a card table and going to bed with the sun

Having an almost comically old house…built in 1892, before electricity and indoor plumbing…pocket doors, stained glass, inlaid wood floors, coal fireplaces on one hand; on the other, no floor is level, no wall is straight, the foundation is crumbling, closets hold a week’s worth of clothing, cracks in the ceiling, cracks in the floor, lots of space but tiny rooms, and every repair reveals new problems and mo’ money. Still wouldn’t change a thing

Kids running down our front stairs on Christmas morning – unbridled joy. And the time the Easter Bunny brought a bubble machine and it was running on Easter morning – inside, in the library-turned-toy room – when Rowan came running down (age 3) – maybe the happiest I’ve seen anyone, ever

So much good here – we are so lucky. I’ll keep doing my sums – eyes shining just a bit.