Moving on

In two weeks, we'll be moving to a new two-bedroom apartment about one mile from where we live now. As I've written about before, buying our place was one of the first times in my life I truly felt like an adult. So moving our small family from our one-bedroom condo, although necessary, will be somewhat bittersweet.

I've lived in this condo for nearly seven years -- the longest I've lived anywhere since the house I grew up in at 1847 Port Margate in Newport Beach (I still remember that phone number, the only phone number I still know by heart.) I've been a single, hard-charging career woman, a fiancee planning her wedding, a newlywed and new mom in this place. Since everything has pros and cons, I can't help but run through them in my head.

Here is what we're gaining by moving: Central air, washer/dryer in unit, two parking spots, a large back deck, our own bedroom and an extra bathroom.

Here is what we're losing: View of Lake Michigan, hearing the ducks from North Pond from our window, walking two blocks to the nature museum, Lincoln Park Zoo and the lake, my 12-minute door-to-door commute to work.

We're renting our new place (not buying yet) and renting out this one to a US diplomat. For the first time in my life, I will become a landlord. And from what I can decipher from her rental application, our new tenant is much like me when I moved in here: mid-30s, single, worldly, career-minded. She was recently assigned to the Chicago office (to do what, I don't know) after four years in Budapest.

Our current living room (let there be light!)

When we were apartment hunting, I felt like Goldilocks. This one is too cold, this one is too hot. It's funny how with so many apartments in the world, it's hard to find one that feels just right. It's also a process that reveals what's truly important to you and what you're willing to do without. For me, one of the most important things is light. Our current place has big Southern-facing windows, which means we get tons of sunlight in our living room, dining area and kitchen. So many places have dark living rooms because they're facing away from the sun or are on a heavily tree-lined street. I don't know how people living in those units don't get claustrophobic and depressed. I feel that way just thinking about it.

Our new place is the second floor of a charming, three-story gray stone. The front door opens right into the kitchen with stainless steel appliances, a huge granite island with bar stools, a built-in wooden hutch and windows that face south (light!) The living room has arts-and-crafts style bay windows that look out at big trees. Behind the living room is a large area perfect for a dining room table or home office, something I've been wanting for years. The bathrooms are cramped, although at least there are two and the bedrooms are average size. Not nearly the palatial proportions of our bedroom now, but we'll do just fine.

The neighborhood has a 20ish professional vibe, not the family-friendly feel of a few other places we looked at, where it seemed couples totting Starbucks lattes, pushing strollers and walking Golden Retrievers passed by every 2 minutes. Our new place is on Belmont and Clifton, about three blocks west of the Vic Theater, a beer-soaked concert venue I haven't been to since I took my Aunt Cathy to see the singing comedian Stephen Lynch five years ago and saw Big Head Todd and the Monsters with some college friends 10 years before that.

The problem with the more family friendly places we liked was that they were too far from public transportation and I would have had to walk almost a mile to the nearest L stop to get to work, which Dave determined was a deal breaker, particularly in the winter.

"I'm worried about your commute," he said.

"You're not worried about my commute," I said. "You're worried about me complaining about my commute."

He didn't say anything, an indication that I was right.

A long commute is a deal breaker for me, too. I'm not one for long car rides, plane rides or even long lines. Waiting is not my strength. I remember my dad used to tell me growing up, "It's the journey, not the destination" and I used to feel annoyed. Every winter we used to do these epic 15-hour drives from Southern California to Utah, Colorado or Idaho to go skiing. I remember sitting in the back of our Suburban with my Sony Walkman and books, a cooler or soft drinks at my feet, feeling supremely bored as the endless winter landscape passed by outside the window.

"Are we there yet?" I'd ask over and over. "Why can't we just fly?"

The only benefit of these trips was it was one of the few times we got to eat at McDonald's. But even a Big Mac and large order of fries couldn't take away the empty feeling I had when staring out at the dark sky from the backseat, my faint reflection in the window staring back at me, knowing we had at least 10 more hours to go.

I understand now the exorbitant amount of money it would have cost my dad to fly a family of four to these ski resorts and then rent a car for the week. But at the time, it felt like cruel and unusual punishment. To this day, I'm not a big fan of road trips (although audiobooks makes them 1,000 times more bearable) and I never do layovers if I can help it.

My commute from work to our new place will be 35 minutes. Not ideal, but doable. Some of my colleagues commute more than an hour from the suburbs, which sounds soul-crushing to me. We spend so much of our lives in transit, which is probably a good reason to make peace with it. I remember a conversation with Dave early on when we were dating when he told me he loved long plane rides. He loved being suspended in space with free, uninterrupted time to journal, listen to music and watch all the movies he wanted.

Not me. If I were ever given the chance to pick a super power, I've want to be Sabrina from "Bewitched." She could just wiggle her nose and be anywhere in the world in two seconds. That's way more my speed.

So anyway, we're moving. We're moving up, on and beyond to the next stage of our life. One of the biggest things I'm looking forward to is being able to read again before bed. For the 16 months that Owen has been in our bedroom, we've had to tiptoe into the dark room, quietly undress and slip into bed without making too many floor boards creak. Letting light flood our bedroom past 7 p.m. will be heavenly. So will knowing we're taking the next right step for our family. You'll have to come and visit.