Two Scoops

The other morning, as I poured myself a bowl of raisin bran, I got a lot of raisins. It reminded me of a morning back in high school when our raisin bran had seemed especially heavy on the raisins, light on the bran. I had noticed it all week, and finally commented on it.

"Wow, they don't lie when they say they put in two scoops of raisins! But I think they should start using smaller scoops, because this is almost too many raisins for me."

My mom came over, peered into my cereal bowl, and had to agree. There were a lot of raisins.

My older sister, also at the table, sat especially quiet with a guilty look on her face . She then fessed up. Every time she had a bowl of raisin bran, she would carefully pick out all the raisins.

And put them BACK into the box with the rest of the cereal.

We all started laughing. It wasn't the cereal company's two scoops - it was my sister!

Moving Day Morning

I was feeling sad and sentimental about leaving the first place Joel and I called home. Until this morning. Moving day morning.

As I was getting ready for work, our smoke detector randomly started going off. It took me a good five minutes to figure out how to make it stop, all the while enduring the ear-piercingly loud beeping.

After the annoyance faded, I found it somewhat amusing that we've never had our smoke detector go psycho in the nearly four years we lived there. Until this morning. Moving day morning.

Maybe it was our apartment saying goodbye and wishing us well.

Or maybe it was just a good reminder why we're moving on.

Farewell Apartment 104

Joel and I have lived in apartment 104 for the past three and half years. And in ten days we'll be moving out. For good. We're going to live in a friend's house for the next six months while they're out of the country. After that, we'll (hopefully) be moving into the house that will be our home for a good long time.

While both of us have grown tired of apartment living, saying farewell to apartment 104 is a little bittersweet for me. Because it wasn't just a ground level, one-bedroom apartment. It was our first place as a married couple, where Joel and I started the journey of learning what it means to be man and wife.

It's where we had a lot of firsts: our first argument as a married couple. Our first Christmas, complete with a smuggled-in real tree. Our first Easter, where I cooked my first ham and filled the apartment with smoke.

We did a lot of celebrating - sometimes just the two of us, sometimes having friends and family over for birthdays, holidays, or just because. And when it was necessary, we grieved. Grieved for death, broken hearts, lost jobs, and life's frustrations.

I'm not going to miss the stained carpet, the crappy dishwasher, or the insensitive neighbor who played the guitar in the middle of the night. But for all it's flaws and shortcomings, it was a good home to us.

So thanks, apartment 104. And farewell.