The newness wears off.
Even the using the word wears me down.
Move and it doesn't take long for one to become possessive: My Borders, my favorite place for coffee, the place we get tacos on Friday nights.
New drifts away and soon you are driving on autopilot to school (four times a day will do that to you), waving at the Crossing Guards, getting hugs from kids in the morning and ducking out of the parking lot before being hit up to take up more volunteer work.
You will be surprised just how quickly the novel morphs into the familiar, and you are at home.
The box for Goodwill was perched precariously in the garage on one of a dozen empty banker boxes, ones used to transport the oh-too-many books here over the summer.
Miscellaneous stragglers that survived the Move of 2010.
One of the kids made a sad little sound at the sight of my weathered red snowflake flannel pjs, faded and too short, and worn out after five winters.
(Yes, we women of some height still outgrow our clothes, or rather, it seems that way after our cotton pants have become acquainted with the dryer.)
Now both kids stood by the box, equally hurt and angry that I would discard the jammies they've grown accustomed to me wearing when darkness falls with dinnertime.
The ones I wore while we have snuggled, and opened presents, and sat quietly after a busy December day by a lit tree; the ones I've worn while making Christmas breakfast. The ones I've read countless books in, on our bed.
The ones from before.
So the pajamas were granted clemency.
I will wear them until they fall apart.