Let me tell you about The King. No, not Elvis. The Lawn Mower King.

We're both really excited about moving, but I'm also not excited. I love my family and I love living next door to them. I'm really going to miss them when we go (even though some of them are leaving in May). However, another large part of moving is leaving this house.

The rational part of me says, "its just a house." A bigger part of me is in love with this house. It was my grandparents house. The clock on the mantle has been there for as long as I've been alive. I have clear memories of sitting at the tiny kitchen table, on a step stool, drinking milk that Grandpa had put a tablespoon of coffee in (so I could drink coffee too). Sometimes, when we walk in the door - I get a wiff of Grandma and Grandpa's house. I love this house.

So, Sunday evening while packing a box I started getting teary. Next thing I know, I'm crying. LMK did what husbands are supposed to do and even offered to decline the job. Whatever it takes for me to be happy. He's going out of his way to make this transition as easy for me as possible - even though it's tough for him too.

It's times like these I'm so thankful for everything we've been through. We've conquered a life shattering mental illness together...everything else - it's gravy. Today (and every day) I'm grateful for my husband.

Tonight's ornament - our first Christmas. (I blacked out our faces.)