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Five years ago my husband and I bought a house.

I was proud and happy, even though the house was in all respects a starter home: not landscaped, small, old, and in a remote area, far from my husband’s work.

The plan was to sell it in a couple years. This is back when the market was booming, and we were sure to make enough off it for a down payment on our dream home.

Yeah, well…not so much, right?

So, after five years, we rented it out and got an apartment closer to L.A. Not close, but closer.

It’s weird living in an apartment again, and this time with a kid. Now when I can hear people shouting in the parking lot, I’m not just worried about getting enough sleep to function in my Victorian Lit. class,  I’m TERRIFIED that they’ll wake the baby.

We specifically picked one with an attached garage because the days of  street parking and carrying my one bag of  groceries from the car have now been replaced by schlepping a 25 pound toddler, four bags of groceries, my purse, and an Elmo backpack.

Also difficult was the task of downsizing from a four-bedroom house to a two-bedroom apartment, especially as we have now accumulated all the plastic toys ever assembled. Ever.

We’re honestly very happy here. But, it’s funny to think of how different my late twenties are from how I imagined them in my early twenties.

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