My dad is a woodworker and furniture builder. He's super talented and makes the most beautiful stuff. He has an impressive workshop in the basement, and D is almost drooling with excitement over the fact that he'll be able to use all my dad's tools for the next year.
But this perk, like most pros, has a con. The con is that the workshop takes up a majority of the basement, leaving little room for storage. There's a very small store room in the corner of the basement, a quarter of which is taken up by the hot water heater.
So I'm pretty sure my mom squealed with glee when I got married and moved out, since this meant that she could free up some valuable storage real estate in the store room. D and I left for our honeymoon thinking that most of our stuff was already at our new house, but we were wrong.
When we got back from Mexico, we came home to our new house, only to find boxes and boxes of "my" stuff (and I put quotations around that "my" because, during the Moving Debacle of 2010, we found 3 Rubbermaid tubs full of my brother's crap) that my parents had brought over from their house. Sitting in our garage.
Being the emotional train wreck that I am, I immediately read way too much into those boxes and decided that my parents were glad to see me go. Of course, that was not the case. They just really, really needed that storage space.
But now? Ohhhhhh now. Now I'm back. And I brought my husband, my baby, and my little dog, too. With three times as much stuff, since there's three people instead of just one. And probably more than three times as much stuff, since any mom or dad can attest to the fact that "stuff" piles up at an alarming rate once a baby enters the picture. Why a tiny human needs so much stuff is beyond me, but I guess it's just one of the laws of nature.
And you want to know where most of our stuff is at this moment? In boxes. Waiting to find a home. In their garage. It wasn't meant to be revenge, but maybe that's what it's shaping up to be.