Living in 2 Places: Keep All Your Fears in One Place

I decided to keep all my fears in the corner of the new-house garage. Where do you keep yours? 

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I moved to Florida with GymGirl and HackerBoy during the summer, while my husband T stayed in New England to wrap up his job.

Unfortunately, all my hopes about what this move would mean for our family stayed at OldHouse, while all my fears made it to NewHouse just fine.


I was wrestling with my fears early Saturday as I moved boxes around in the garage. I was looking for forks and spoons and knives (I'll share my moving organization fail later on), and the questions kept coming: What if GymGirl hates her new coach? What if HackerBoy never leaves his room? What if I see a snake? What if I see an alligator? What if living in 2 places does not work this time and everything falls apart? Finding a fork should not be this hard!
Here are some items that I came across as I opened all the boxes that I thought might contain kitchen utensils:

• A heavyweight down comforter that will keep a person warm even if the room temperature drops below 62 degrees. Has it ever been below 62 degrees in Florida?
  
• Three sets of flannel sheets, worn out and totally cozy. I break into a sweat just thinking about these sheets. I cannot believe I used to top them with the aforementioned comforter.
  
• A crate holding four pairs of cold-weather boots.

The boots are important.

My husband T and HackerBoy picked sneaker-style boots because they plan to wear them for yard work. Very utilitarian.

GymGirl decided to keep a pair of Bogs winter boots. While Bogs boots are the best, most awesome winter boots for kids, this pair is special because it was given to her by her gymnastics teammate, V.

GymGirl cherishes every piece of hand-me-down clothing that V gives her. I suspect these boots will remain in the crate until sometime after she moves to college in 8 or so years.

Next to GymGirl’s Bogs are the boots I chose to keep. My boots are hand-me-down L.L. Bean suede ski boots that belonged to a teenaged boy. I work with his mother, and she gave them to me when her son left for college. I was supposed to save them for HackerBoy, who was only five at the time.

But then, one morning, my own boots were still very wet and out of desperation, I borrowed the hand-me-downs. I meant to wear them just for the day, but they fit perfectly and were so much more comfortable than my own boots. The traction against black ice and slippery snow-packed paths was so much better, too. I knew after an hour that HackerBoy would never know he had been given such awesome boots.

Of course, as soon as I walked into the first meeting of the day, the mom who gave the boots to HackerBoy noticed I was wearing them. She was horrified that my life had become so awful that I needed to wear hand-me-down boots from a teenager.

But, the reality is this:

1. It's nearly impossible to tell the difference between black ski boots for women and black ski boots for boys.
   
2. Teen boys do not wear boots or coats or hats or gloves unless being bribed with cash or a dozen Whoopie Pies, so I'm not sure they were even "used boys boots." They were more like "parked-in-a-closet boys boots."
   
3. By the time the boots fit HackerBoy, he would be a teen who would refuse to wear boots or coats or hats or gloves unless bribed with cash or Whoopie Pies, so saving the boots for HackerBoy to park in his own closet seemed like a waste of a good pair of boots.

I have worn these boots for the past decade, and I still love them.

I fiddle with the shoestrings. I doubt I will wear these boots again.

I so badly want to lean into this confidence and unemotionally place the boots into the give-away bin, as if doing so will affirm my confidence in our decision to move. Would this symbolic gesture shut up the fears that keep taunting me?

I cannot let go of the boots. What if I need to control-Z my way back to New England, back to the snow, back to the safety of the neighborhood and neighbors that we loved, back to the school that I loved for my daughter and that I hated for my son, back to the colleagues who made my work feel purposeful, and back to the students whose work changed my life?

Later, I asked GymGirl if she remembers why she chose to keep her Bogs boots, and she says, “Because…what if we go back home?”

Home.

She wants control-Z boots, too.

How many days did I wear these boots while wrestling with the decision to move? While continuing to struggle for solutions? Was I wearing these boots on the day my husband and I decided with certainty to move? On the day that I accepted my new job? On the day we told the kids and HackerBoy started packing immediately while GymGirl cried her eyes out? On the day I told V’s mom, and I thought that because she is in the same line of work as me, she would understand? Instead, she cried.

I stare into the bin of boots and breathe out all my fears, envisioning the questions swirling toward the bottom of the crate and being stomped by my boots. And then, before I can let the questions float back out of the crate, I slam down the lid and it with packing tape.

So this is where I am keeping my fears these days—in the corner of the garage under the boots I trust in snow, ice, and now, sunshine. Do you have a good place to store your fears?