We moved into a rental house, since we couldn't find a house that we loved enough to buy.
Everyone says that the rental is a great way to experience a new community: you get to learn the lay of the land and decide where you really want to live before committing. I get it, and they are right. But the fact remains that renting means a second move, and moving is high on my list of soul-sucking activities.
The kids' spaces are homey and livable, but sealed and still-full boxes cluster in almost every other corner. The adult bookshelves are bare. My spatulas lurk in the depths of the packed boxes of wedding china, and there they will remain until we move to a more final destination. Who needs spatualas? (I do. Suprisingly often.)
So, we're here and getting sort of settled but not really settled. It's a beautiful seaside town, much smaller and bucolic than any where else I've ever lived. It's nice to not panic if I forget to lock my car door and it's great to let the kids burn off their late-afternoon grumpiness on the beach, and there's plenty of free parking, but it's... very.... quiet.... here. You can't walk to much, and most things are at least a 20 minute drive away (by "things", I mean mommy conveniences: Whole Foods, the Target, the highway that takes you into the city--not that you'd want to drive into the city). You can take a boat into Boston, which is very cool, and there is a train--but neither run on weekends, so they are of limited use. So I am feeling trapped in a half-settled house in the middle of nowhere, but the tasks at hand (tackling the boxes, arranging the books on the shelves, and always laundry, lunches and dinner) don't exactly fill me with zest.
It takes time, I know. I suspect the perfect house will pop up within an hour after I surrender and unpack the spatulas, and that clarity over whether this town is right for us will develop the minute I shelve those books. Guess I'll work on the books first.