When my parents moved us into the home that is the center of my childhood memories, I was 17 months old and my brother was 6 weeks. I’m honestly not sure how they accomplished that with their marriage and sanity intact; we had a hard enough time with a singular 4-month-old. (My mom, blessed be her name, took the dogs in the morning before the movers arrived, kept them at her place overnight, and brought them to their new domicile the next day). 

My wife woke up the morning of the big move with what we thought was food poisoning, only to realize two days later when my mom came down with the same symptoms that it was a stomach bug. That put my three-day stomachache prior to the move into perspective.

I had figured it was just stress but it turns out for once I had an actual physical problem! (Sonny’s symptoms were limited to two bouts of projectile spit-up, one of which would have nailed me directly in the eye if it weren’t for my coke bottle glasses. I’ve never been so grateful for them before).

So she was limited in what labor she could do. And my arms were full most of the time with baby. Fortunately we hired a couple of movers and they were swell guys, super professional and — most importantly — dads.

So they were very chill about the screaming and crying and breastfeeding in the background. They also had to disassemble the crib I had put together incorrectly in order to move it and they reassembled it properly at our destination! (We we’re only using it for storage — I didn’t put my baby in a crooked crib.)

I fully recommend hiring professionals. I also recommend getting about three times as many moving boxes as you think you need. Toward the end we were just throwing things into reusable tote bags willy-nilly to get it all out the door and into the truck on time. Fortunately, being a stereotypical liberal and someone who has never once turned down free swag from an event, I had about three dozen reusable bags in the shed. They are now scattered around the edges of our new living room. 

The first week in the new home was a little rough. Both autistic people and babies are well known for having trouble with transitions. You put two of them in one family and throw in a lack of sleep? Let’s just say that much like our first month together, we spent a lot of time crying together.

At least this time only one of us was in diapers. Sonny showed his distress by adding an extra wake-up to his busy night schedule and by refusing to be put down for more than three minutes at a time (which is part of the reason we still haven’t finished unpacking.) 

But it’s been a few weeks; we’ve all started to settle in and establish some routines. Sonny’s back to being on his playmat for 10 or 15 minutes at a time and he’s recently figured out how to grab objects of interest and bring them to his mouth. (Often this includes the playmat itself.) The dogs have discovered the joys of the fire hydrant on the corner.

I mostly know where all the kitchen implements are; the walls are still bare (our living room floor looks like an art museum exploded). We got a passive aggressive note from the post office explaining how exactly to clear a path to our mailbox.

We have enough furniture that the house doesn’t look naked, although we desperately need more rugs. Hardwood floors are beautiful and all but you know what 1990s wall-to-wall carpeting can do that hardwood could never? Dampen sound. A must when you have two self-appointed alarm dogs and a baby with a strong set of pipes.

We’re getting used to the house’s quirks — nothing too annoying, fortunately, mostly a lot of mystery light switches and a mudroom door that lets snow in unless you stuff a rug under it. 

The animals are adapting fabulously. Janey barks much less at outside noises, since the bigger house insulates her from hearing every little thing. She’s also on track to lose a little of her extra weight because now she has stairs, which she insists on following me up and down, no matter how short my trip. Karma loves sitting in my office, staring out the big window facing the street, and breathing heavily through her nose when she sees other dogs walk by. And Persephone the cat pretty much lives in the towel closet now, which she has figured out how to open and which is located directly above a heating vent. 

The goal of this move is to never have to do it again. We’re well on our way.