“My Story… ” Monday: Itchy Feet

 

By the time I was two years old, I was living in my third state.

 

I would actually stay in that one for about eight years, but I started fifth grade in another state.

 

And moved again just as I started college. Which, by the way, was in yet another state.

 

I’d list off the many places I’d lived by the tender age of eighteen and, always, people would nod knowingly and inquire with one word, “Military?”

 

But, no. That wasn’t it. My dad was a director of engineering for as long as I could remember. But, still, I’d moved more than the average kid, it seemed.

 

Perhaps that’s why it didn’t faze me overly much to journey all the way down to Florida from New England when I headed off to college. I honestly had a very hard time relating to those people who had spent their whole lives in the same state. Though I now know there are lots of you out there, it still boggles my mind, to be honest. I really just can’t even fathom…

 

Anyway, though I spent a year back in Connecticut after graduating, I headed back down to Florida after that. To a new town. On the other side of the state. Quickly, I settled into being a South Floridian. (This amuses me now, to be honest.)

 

What’s the point of all this? Well, it’s just to give you some background. Are there people who moved more than me? Oh, absolutely. Particularly those aforementioned military families. But, even so, I had moved more than most people my age.

 

And I was fine with it.

 

The one skill I had, for which I remain grateful, was the ability to be happy wherever I landed. When I was at college? I only wanted to be on the Gulf coast of Florida. When I was home for the summer? I wept real tears at the thought of leaving New England to go back. Of course, as soon as I got there, I was glad to be back. Honestly, it was a gift, I believe, that I was given. It allowed me to really bloom and shine wherever I was planted.

 

 

 

And, so, after marrying in 2001, I was a little surprised to find my feet feeling itchy.

 

I still liked South Florida. I was good at my job. We had friends. We had a lovely condo with super sweet elderly neighbors. We were doing well.

 

But, as I wrapped Christmas presents one year with the air conditioner humming, I started to cry.

 

I missed the seasons.

 

I also started imagining wrapping, well, tinier presents. It was no secret that we wanted to have a family at some point, though we weren’t sure when that might happen. And, while Florida was a lovely place to live as a 20-something, at least at that time, the funding for schools was not stellar. Remember, I had spent most of my school years in pricey Connecticut, where schools are incredibly well-funded compared to most states. I worried about our future children.

 

So, I did what any suddenly-sad bride might do. I broached the subject to my new husband.

 

He listened.

 

And we started talking about where we should move…

 

 

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