We hear a lot about “attachment parenting.” There are varying schools of thought, but I embraced much of it my first year with H. because several of its tenants—babywearing, breastfeeding, responding to baby’s cues—fell in line with my instincts. It wasn’t a how-to program to follow as much as it just felt like mothering.
If, in my opinion, such benefit can hinge on attachment, what does it mean to detach from our immediate environment? What does it mean to do so swiftly and frequently?
We have moved again. Not far from where we’ve spent the past year since leaving Chile. It wasn’t our choice, but a hazard of renting. Our landlord sold the sweet house we were so comfortable in, where H. learned to walk… and talk… and eat… and sleep through the night… and play in the grass with Ruby.
Since H.’s birth, we have lived in four residences, one briefly, but for long enough to unpack and find the grocery store and tread new paths. As usual, we don’t know how long we will live here in the new house with the new, beautiful yard.
The other night on Mad Men, Roger Sterling waxed nostalgic over his company, SC&P, and its absorption by the behemoth ad agency. He and Peggy are sitting in what remains of his office, now a dilapidated thrown of sorts. They split a bottle of vermouth and talk about the business as an empty floor echoes with what once was. “Even if your name’s on the damn door,” Roger says, “you should know better than to get attached to some walls.” There’s nothing they can do to stop the flow of time through that door and into the next, unknown chapter.
Even with all the moves this lifestyle has asked (and will continue to ask) of my family, you might say I, too, should know better than to get attached. Yet, attachment—the early, instant kind—may be the only way I know how to manage it. To say, okay, these four walls are shelter for my family. Whether it’s for one month or one year, it’s home. It’s where H. will continue to learn, Ryan will plant seeds in the soil even if we don’t know how tall we’ll get to see the plants grow, and I will hunt for more hearts. Hopefully, Ruby will find a new best friend amongst our neighbors.
Still, it’s hard to start over, to feel rootless. Ruby has been jumping on our bed in the middle of the night, something she’s never really done. She has weathered all these moves, too, and perhaps wants closeness to what has stayed the same. I sure don’t blame her. I miss the old walls as much as I’m attaching to the new ones. I left a heart behind, the sparkler we used to light the night for Lorenzo last June. I never tread with him there, just as I won’t here. I miss Chile, where I did. And California and the home I grew up in. But like any cleansing, a new vantage point can liberate and lighten. Confidence grows from continuing to find your way.
Last Saturday, our new neighbors had a yard sale. I introduced myself and spent a dollar on a porcelain Victorian lady’s boot because my grandmother had one just like it. She used it to store pens and pencils and kept it by her rotary phone. I brought it home, filled it with pens, and set it on my desk. Then things felt a little more familiar.
New walls can still embrace the past. Roots aren’t always a result of time.