I just dragged over the final bag of cleaning supplies from the old place, which is 4 doors down from the new place. The close proximity made the whole process drag on for almost two weeks, but it's finally done. All that remains is dropping off our keys and praying we get our security deposit back.
And, I'm so much more upset than I ever thought I would be.
That apartment was the first place Hubby and I had that was "ours", not "mine until he moved in". We arranged and decorated it together, and I loved it. I still love it, even though it became too small. It was N.'s first home, too; I brought him home from the hospital to his crib in that apartment, he rolled over for the first time there, he crawled and took his first steps there. He gave me his first little baby hugs and kisses there. As he grows and changes, I feel like I've had a dozen different babies, and I don't want to leave them all behind, because I can feel them in the old apartment.
I know people move. I've been fortunate that my parents moved into their present house four days after I was born, and haven't left, and that's a home base for me, but it's not for N., not in the same way. And the new place is twice the square footage, twice the windows, four times the storage space, and room for my little boy to run and play.
But, I fell in love with my baby as a separate being in that old apartment, we built our family in that apartment. I hate the idea that it's been dismantled.
I'm so sad today.