There are many days I arrive home and vow that I am never driving in traffic again, so we’re moving closer to work or I’m finding a different job. Of course, I’m not serious. At least not very serious.
And now, after hard work and saving and saving and strict austerity measures and cheap rent, thanks to my very generous parents, we are buying a house, a house far away from work but very close to the boys’ future school.
I will still hate driving, I know. There’s no denying that the commute is terrible for my body (chronic pain in my back and neck) and soul (please never ride with me. I’m not a nice person when I’m driving.) But once I’m in the semi-rural suburbs where we’ve decided to live for the long haul, I’m glad I’m here. It’s peaceful. I drive by cows and horses and alpacas. There are vast empty green fields (but an alarming lack of good restaurants). When we go for walks, it’s not uncommon to see one or two people we know walking or driving by. And my husband is very happy here, happy to be back in the place he grew up, happy to tell stories about a time when this town was even smaller and the open spaces even broader. My kids will play in dirt and split open their knees and get soaked in rainstorms in some of the same fields and roads as their dad and there is something so wonderful about that.
And here’s my future view: