Moving on.

I have a love-hate relationship with this townhouse.

After my ex left, the kids and I had to move in with my parents for nearly a year as I waited for my divorce to get finalized and child support to start coming regularly. At the time, I made too much to qualify for any assistance (daycare or otherwise), but not enough to afford to support the four of us. While I worked full time at a decent-paying job, I just couldn't afford living expenses plus full-time daycare costs for three kids.

It was demoralizing to say the least.

There is no worse feeling in the whole world than knowing that you can't provide for your children. It's a precarious place - wanting to work and be self-sufficient, but being unable to do so.

I could've quit my job and pulled the kids from daycare. It would've been easy to chuck what little I had left to stay home with my kids and collect support from the state. But for me, working full time never was optional. I needed it to hold onto a sense of purpose - to maintain my dignity. So, instead, I kept working, swallowed my pride and moved back home. And I will forever be grateful to my parents for lending me a hand during that awful year.

After the divorce papers were filed, it took a good while for the child support direct deposit to kick in. Somehow a payroll department error resulted in my ex's wages being garnished for a few months, but there was no wire transfer to the state's child support clearing house. The result was that he paid, but for weeks and weeks, I never saw a dime.

When the mess was finally resolved, the child support money finally put me back in the black, albeit barely. I was finally not operating at a deficit. I managed to scrape up enough to get a place of my own and began pouring over the rental ads. As I read the listings, I wondered if I'd find something big enough that I could afford.

And then I found it.

I loved this townhouse the first time I saw it. Three bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, big yard on a cul-de-sac. Even though a major highway ran through the back yard, I couldn't see it past the big, flowering crab apple tree or the kick-ass sledding hill just out my back door. Finding a place I could afford in a great school district on a quiet street was a dream come true.

I regained my freedom here. I established a stable home for my kids here. And I began to write here.

While I was (and still am) immensely proud of getting here, I'll admit that there are times when being here doesn't feel so great.

Whenever I visit my family and friends in their single family homes and watch their kids play in long driveways and gorgeous rec rooms, I feel a little painful twinge, wishing I could provide the same setting for my crew. Walking in their yards among various plantings and vegetable gardens, I'm green with envy. How I'd love to plant flowers in dirt that wasn't borrowed and weed flowerbeds that I planted, rather than inherited!

But the hardest part of living here has been knowing that some of my own neighbors look down at me and my kids because of this place. We are one of just two families who rent on a street lined with single-family homes. I know what they're thinking when they refuse my friendly wave: low income, low life.

My townhouse neighbors do nothing to dispel the perception of transient, low-income renters who don't give a shit. While they're nice people, they let their cars leak oil all over the street, allow their kids to run around the yard with dirty faces and Spaghetti-O-stained clothes, and leave their pizza delivery sign attached to their truck - often illuminated - all night long in the driveway.

I'm painfully aware that I'm often painted with the same brush.

I imagine the chatter, "Harumph, a single mom with all those kids. Wonder if they even have the same father." I can deal with it, but I don't want the kids to have to. Someday soon, they're going to become aware of life's haves and have nots. And I don't want them to be treated differently because of someone else's perception. I don't want their friends' parents to refuse play dates because I can't afford my own white picket fence - or have to share my driveway with a broken down Chevy Cavalier.

So, while I'm still grateful and proud of rebuilding my life here in this townhouse, I'm eager to move on. I'm thrilled that together Mark and I were able to save up enough for a much bigger house on an even quieter street, where my kids can roller skate in a long driveway and sleep in rooms they can call their own. I'm eager to dig my hands in my own dirt and plant flowers I know I'll enjoy for years and years. And I'm hopeful to have a neighborhood where I fit in instead of stick out.

Sometimes when I think of moving, I get a little emotional. I'm full of excitement and anticipation for this new chapter. And I'm relieved - and a little amazed - that I've survived the one I'm wrapping up.

I know I won't miss sharing a house, but I will miss the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment I got writing that rent check each month.

I did it. I survived. Hallelujah.

~ ~ ~

Beginning Thursday, I'll be without Internet access for nearly a week due to the move. If I can figure out how to Tweet from my phone, I'll try to give a few play-by-play updates. Until then, I'm signing off and will return sometime late next week. Take care!