When I first moved to Baltimore in 2005, I was a part-time grad student at Hopkins. I was a technical writer with not much to do, I was newly engaged and a new homeowner; I was a lot of things.  This was in my not-so-smart ardor days.  I had a down-to-earth professor who wrote our textbook, gave me A-minuses and had two kids. I felt I could not relate to her. She had recently moved out of the city.  My 24-year-old self thought she was old.  She was probably in her early 30's. She said she loved the city, but her eldest child was three.  "My friends call it the three-foot-rule," she said.  "You move into the city before you have kids, and you can stay once you have them, but only until they're three feet tall.  Then you start running out of space and have to think about a yard and school, so you move to the county."  This did not evoke any emotion in me because I was sure I would be long gone by the time we had kids.  I used to say it to city skeptics as if it were a certainty.

When I became pregnant with our first child and we were still firmly planted in the city, I thought we'd be out of there before she could walk.  Then just one more summer.  Then I decided my procreation plans shouldn't be dictated by the housing market, so I became pregnant again.  But by the time our second daughter came along, something changed.  We learned how to really be here.  We learned to love our neighborhood, to love our neighbors.  We became part of the community and joined a church on our street.  We stopped driving to the suburbs for everything and really embraced our city life.  We fell in love.

It is very difficult to explain to people who have never lived in a city why we're sad to leave, or what we'll miss when we're gone. None of them have ever asked why we're leaving downtown; they figure they know. Parking is a daily struggle, sure, and 1310 square feet distributed across three levels is not a lot. Nights have been noisy, our cars have occasionally been rifled through; life is different in the city.  I know my mother has been praying for a way out for us for years, and in some ways it is an answer to prayer.  But our life is about to change, and we are having trouble adjusting to even the thought of it.

What I love about living in the city is the energy.  I love knowing and supporting independent shop owners who live in my neighborhood. I love the restaurants and the activity, love the freedom and walking everywhere.  I love not having to make plans (which is kind of surprising, since I'm always making plans).  I like early morning walks along the harbor with my babies.  I like wandering out the door on a Saturday with no agenda and knowing I can go to a farmer's market, a festival, the park, the pool, the harbor-- all for nearly free. I will miss after-dinner walks to the park and to get ice cream, wandering down the street to eat pizza in a courtyard. I will miss our meandering date nights to Camden Yards.  I'll miss the enormous playground two blocks from our house, or the fantastic pool and sprayground that costs just $1.50 that Emerie hasn't had the chance to use.  I'll miss breezy nights on the two-story rooftop deck Daniel took two and a half summers to build himself.  I will miss it.

On what it seems will be our last trip to the playground while it's just a stroll away, the girls and I ran into a friend from church and her family.  "I heard a rumor that you're moving," she said and asked where as our daughters embraced and ran off to play.

I heard myself tell her we'd be just inside the city, "eight miles and a world away."  I struggled to describe the location, which is a haven of historic beauty in the middle of a depressed area. Unless you've been there, you just don't know. In some ways, I feel it will feature some of the more difficult aspects of "city living" than living downtown has. "It has a yard, and a driveway, and a picket fence, if you can believe that," I said.  She gave me a knowing look.  I felt like a traitor.  Most people outside our city circle assumed we would do anything to get out.  But on the inside, we had a sort of  code.  Parking is terrible, but you get sort of used to it.  Crime is scary, but we can work to change it.  Schools are abysmal, but we can build charters and join the school board.  We joined alliances, we volunteered at events, we were in on it.  We were homesteaders, committing to city life-- the good and the bad.  I thought I'd see my little girls in plaid charter school uniforms.  And maybe someday I will, but not here.  I defected.

Though I never intended to, it turns out I followed the three-foot-rule after all.  I wonder if my city kids, who in two days will have a front porch and a backyard with a gazebo and hammock and stepping stones, will ever remember our urbanite life.  I wonder if this is good-bye to it, or a departure for now.  Either way, though I look forward to the next thing for us, still I mourn this loss.

On a recent dairy delivery day (have I mentioned how much I love South Mountain Creamery?), I ventured out front under our bench to discover our cooler was stolen.  I stormed inside, probably muttering to myself "who steals a frickin' cooler," or something as spiritually elevated. 

"What's wrong, Mommy?" Mirabella asked.

"Somebody took our cooler," I told her, wanting to be honest.

"Oh, no! Now we can't do SO MANY SINGS," she cried.

"It's okay, Mirabella, we have another one we can use.  We can always buy a new one.  We'll be okay."  My back-up cooler had just enough room for that week's delivery, so we set it out and ventured on to our day.

In the tunnel ten minutes later, Mirabella said, "Mommy, maybe de person who taked if fought it was deirs."

I considered how to handle this.  "No, baby," I said, "they knew it wasn't theirs. They took it from our house."

"But why did dey do dat?"  I thought about how to answer this.  It's not that it was nice-- it didn't even have handles anymore. And I realize I left it outside, so it was really a matter of time. I was annoyed that someone took what was mine. Still, I wasn't comfortable talking about "bad people."  I don't really believe that, and I don't want my kids to fear these mysterious "bad people" or think of themselves as somehow better.  I knew there was a greater lesson, I just wasn't prepared for it and didn't really feel like delivering it. 

My tone wasn't convincing, but I said, "Everyone makes bad choices sometimes.  Do you ever make bad choices, Mira?"

"Noooo, Mommy, never."

"Really, baby?  You never take toys from Emerie?  Or treat her unkindly?"

"Well...sometimes."

"See? Everyone makes bad choices sometimes.  We may feel disappointed, but we can forgive them, and we can move on."

That afternoon when I arrived at day care, Naomi said, "Christina, did someone steal your microwave? Mirabella told me someone broke into your house and took the big thing that keeps things warm."

I laughed and corrected her.  Mirabella, always listening, said, "What's it called, Mommy?  Da hotner? Da warmner?  Ohh, no, the coldner.  Somebody stealed our coldner. Dey maked a bad choice."  I'm not sure I nailed this teachable moment, but I think I'll have plenty of practice.

Why is shopping for stuff for the new house and mentally laying out the furniture and decor so much more compelling than packing?  I think I'm a hunter.  I like scouring the depths of the internet or unexpected discount stores for deals (I'm looking at you, Mohawk shag rug for $39!  BigLots!  Who knew?).  I like looking for inspiration.  I enjoy feeling like things are accomplished and organized; I just hate actually doing it.

Things are progressing with our sale.  My friend Mindy came by tonight and said, "It's hitting me that you're not going to be here anymore.  And that will not be convenient for me."  I am feeling it too.  Part of why I'm not packing is because that's just how I am.  I am a procrastinator, and there are three more weeks until we move.  I have worked hard to acquire boxes so things can be packed.  I have freecycled and even stolen (sort of.  Empty boxes outside someone's house in a pile.  I knocked on the door and they didn't answer.  That's not really stealing, right? I sincerely apologize if you're a freecycler who was supposed to pick up those boxes on the 600 block of S. Patterson Park Avenue.  My bad).  Anyway, I am excited about the new house becoming a home.  Maybe even a bit obsessed.  I fall asleep mentally decorating the girls' room (there will be a reading nook.  And a canopy!).  I scour Craigslist daily.  Daniel says I'm ahead of myself, and he's right. 

We really are moving. Last weekend our new neighborhood threw a party to welcome us.  On the riverbank, it was lovely and they were warm.  Mirabella picked strawberries and planted carrots and tomatoes she's looking forward to harvesting after we move. We felt at ease and welcome.  Except when the charming 7-year-old girl I met asked, "Why are you so fat?" 

"Umm, I don't think I'm fat," I said, fake smiling.

"Well, your belly's fat," she remarked.  "Do you have a baby in there?"

"No, but thank you for asking," I said.

"Well, it looks like you do."  Now, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't angry.  Daniel said I needed to let it go.  As you can see, I have not taken his advice. But aside from that, it was wonderful. 

I know we are moving, but it's hard to imagine. I know part of why I'm putting it off is because it's sad.  This has been our only home together.  I have pictures of me in my wedding dress in this house.  It's where we adjusted to living together, where I first realized I couldn't storm off to my apartment when things got hard. Here we learned to pinch pennies, dreamed of the future, and learned to love the now.  It's where we became parents, where we became a team.  Living in this house has taught us so much and I will miss it terribly.  Seeing it in boxes means I can't pretend it's not real.  

I know it's time for us to go.  I know there are things we are learning in the leaving and in the next stop.  I believe there will be healing and new obstacles in our new place. And of course there are things I won't miss, like my daily chore of circling the block for bad parking while Mirabella asks, "Mommy, did dat guy take your spot?  I will pray dat we get a spot, right in front of our house, okay?"  Okay, maybe I will miss that a little bit.  She really does pray it, out loud, then waits expectantly when we pull up.  Her faith humbles me.  I bet she doesn't fall asleep wondering what rug will be on the floor of her new room or how her things are going to get there.

Upon my return from, gulp, nine days abroad sans children, I find myself discussing the why.  “Wasn’t it hard to leave your kids?” many have asked, some in a slightly accusatory tone.  Short answer: Yes. It was hard to leave my kids. I cried when we walked out the door. I cried at least once after a long-distance phone call in which my tearful three-year-old told me she missed me. But I went, and I would do it again and we hope to sooner than later. Why?

I know this is not necessarily a normal parental attitude, and it's certainly not the one my parents modeled. I remember being nine years old and staying with my grandparents for 10 days with my brothers, eight and two, while my parents took their one-and-only solo vacation to St. Thomas. I cried. The boys cried.  I said that I forgot what my mother looked like and listened to Anne Murray songs because her voice reminded me of my mom. When my parents returned, my mom said they would not go on a trip like that again; they missed us too much.  But no permanent damage was done.

Before we had kids, we discussed the importance of our marriage and its impact on our children.  We said our children would not be our top priority. It was easy to say it then; our children were faceless.  But now they are Mirabella, the princess-obsessed, exceptionally bright and precocious 3-year-old with the business-like blonde bob she is always tucking behind her ears, and Emerie, the tiny sprite of a toddler with a head full of loopy strawberry curls, sky-blue eyes, and the tenacity of a much larger child.  They have, quite literally, made our lives full. They have also only increased the urgency of prioritizing our relationship.  Life as two working parents with two pre-school-aged children requires teamwork.  Dividing to conquer. Days are filled with tasks, not always quality time.  We get to the point where we can’t see each other anymore.

I don’t understand it when people say they “don’t believe in divorce.”  It is irrefutable; it exists, regardless of whether you believe in it.  This fact, and the related topic of wanting to stay together as opposed to "not divorced," was the focus of our premarital counseling. We just celebrated five years of marriage, and it is clearer to me than ever why so many marriages fail. I can absolutely see how people “fall out of love” with each other or feel that they don’t know each other anymore. It takes vigilance, and sometimes the (valid) reasons not to make time for us pile up.  Sometimes it’s okay; life is a series of seasons. I am prone to letting it slide, but Daniel has always  been our advocate. He always looks for opportunities to get out or away, to the point that I sometimes tease that he wants to pretend we have a different life.  It's not that; he is unabashedly resolute in his desire not to lose us.  One night in Rome, on the rooftop terrace of our hotel, I thanked him for making it happen. Left up to me, we might go on the occasional date, but we would not be selfish for our marriage.  We would be available to everyone but each other.  We would be wrong.

This is not the proverbial question, “which came first;” that one is obvious.  We came first.  We were here first, sipping coffee on park benches all over Baltimore, marveling in the joy of just being together, before those precious girls were even a thought. And, it's my sincere prayer that we will still be here once the girls have started their own lives. Ayelet Waldman wrote this controversial piece a few years back in the New York Times about why she loves her husband more than her kids.  Uproar ensued. I think some of her language was a little inflammatory, maybe to get a reaction, maybe because that's actually how she feels.  I know in my writing I have often been rightly accused of assuming the good and highlighting the bad.  But I think I agree with her central point.  We do our children a disservice when they are the absolute center of our lives, home, and family.  

At work one day a co-worker said he admired that we made time to go away.  I mentioned that we have chosen to put our marriage ahead of our children for the benefit of our children.  Himself a 35-year marriage veteran with four grown children, he cringed; "I think the kids come first, but I understand what you're saying."  A fellow mother of young kids asked for details of the trip with envious eyes.  "We've been married eight years and we've only ever been away for one night a couple of times.  I have never spent more than a night away from my kids."

I'm not advocating leaving children for long stretches, or at least not for the sake of leaving children.  But the benefits of our trip-- the reconnection, the time our children spent bonding with their grandparents, the lesson they learned that Mommy and Daddy love each other and always come back, and the memories Daniel and I will have of our adventure together-- far outweighed our shared heartache over the separation.  Emerie took a couple weeks to realize I wasn't hopping on a plane every time I left the room, but she is fine now.  And though some may disagree, I think we are better parents post Italy.