Moving In with Family
When the day of the move finally came, Baddy and I were tapped out, emotionally and physically. We were saved by family, starting with Baddy’s parents, who drove in from Denver to help us pack the rest of our belongings. I thought I was so organized, with every box carefully labeled, but by the time Frank and Barbara walked in I was slumped between boxes, twitching and ready to shoot my tape gun at anything that moved.
With renewed energy, we finished the last-minute packing, which was far more than we had bargained for. The remaining boxes were labeled “Stuff, stuff and more stuff.”
Earlier, a neighbor had come by with the most deliciously comforting Martha Stewart mac and cheese. I had been holding up well until she pointed out an enormous angel-shaped cloud hovering over Mount Sopris outside our window. She said it must be a sign that our family was being watched over. I broke down, hoping it was true.
As the last box was loaded onto the truck, I turned and locked the door, saying goodbye to some of the best years of our life, and set off down the road, scraping the gravel driveway with our low-riding Vini-man, packed with everything we might need for the changing mountain weather.
“We’re here,” I announced, walking into Michele’s house, feeling like a tiny Who from Whoville needing to be heard.
When Baddy and I found out there was a twelve-day gap between moving out of our house and into our rental, we decided to ask Michele and Jim if they would take us in. They said yes without batting an eyelash. Now that’s what I call love… and generosity.
Of course, being family, they had to say yes, but their offer was sincere, not obligatory, and we were immensely grateful. Not wanting to impose, I had suggested to Baddy that I pitch an Aspen Real Life mini-series to my favorite staycation resort in trade for a stay, but he insisted that turning to family was far more sensible. It’s good to be married to somebody who grounds you. It’s also good to have family who loves you.
It was hard to ask, but we weren’t alone. A Pew Research Center report at the time found that more than 51 million Americans were living in multigenerational households, the largest increase in modern U.S. history, driven largely by unemployment.
Before moving in, I thought of movies about family reunions like The Family Stone and The Big Chill and started looking forward to quality time with my sister, my bro-in-law (as I like to call him) and my nieces and nephews. But when I walked in the door loaded with bags, I got worried. As much as we all love being together, this was no holiday, and my visions of cozy mornings bonding over big cups of coffee were delusional. Michele was in the middle of midterms, and there were differing kid schedules to juggle. I was determined not to let the “Loud” family, as Michele lovingly calls us, cause complete disruption.
The boys did their best to rein in their energy, and I worked hard to keep life going as usual, lest despair and anxiety set in. Muki didn’t help much with her territorial growling and barking. How was I going to teach her that she was the intruder?
But surprisingly, a nice flow developed as the two families united. Michele and I found a lovely rapport, joining forces in the kitchen every morning for our dance of making breakfast and packing lunch boxes. It wasn’t easy to come up with lunch menus everyone was enthusiastic about, but somehow we managed. As for breakfast, I took notes on Michele’s incredibly healthy smoothies, which the children all loved despite the flaxseed and coconut oil. Everything tasted better with Auntie Michele at the helm. Dinners were spent catching up on lost time, and the oldest cousin, Devon, actually seemed to like having bodies attach themselves to him the minute he walked in the door. He had no problem shaking them off the minute he opened his intimidating high school homework. As for spats, they didn’t last long with sweet girls there to break up any tension.
On the second day of our stay, Jim cheerily announced, “Two days in and all is well.” Our life was in disarray and I couldn’t find my underwear, but I appreciated his positivity, and as I looked at him, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I felt tremendous love.
As Dr. Seuss reminds us, “A person’s a person, no matter how small.”
