Ironman and I move somewhere new every week. In our head of course. And don’t worry, we take the Littles, blissfully unaware of the displacement. While most people are feverishly poking their iPads to make birds angry, our fingers are tapping the big blue Z, mentally relocating to a house twice as big as ours. As we peck through the houses for sale, we dream of more space and a floor that doesn’t creak just as you tip toe out of Little J’s room at night. We preview photos of newly constructed homes, the antithesis of our 1950’s bungalow, littered with fancy upgrades and perfectly painted accent walls. Our dueling tablets glow in the bedroom at night as we compare our latest finds, when we know we should be going to sleep because Little A will inevitably wake soon. We whisper how nice it would be to have a level floor that wouldn’t return Little J’s toy ball like a personal bowling alley. We tap all around the city and wonder if the school rating is good or just good enough. We zillow constantly. At the doctor’s office, at the grocery store, at the bank. We constantly shop around to see if the perfect house is out there or if we can make someone move. We are Zillowers and our bible is the New Zestimate. One day we take action on our hypothetical move and unexpectedly, the house lives up to our wish list. It is big and new and shiny. And the floor doesn’t creak when you tip toe out of what would be little J’s room. On the 30 minute drive home, the rain taps the window to break the silence. Finally I confess. I don’t want to move to the new and big and shiny zillowed house. I like being able to walk to the grocery store and ride a bike to get ice cream. I like the history of all of the families before us that have grown up in our house. And Ironman sighs in relief. He doesn’t want to move yet either. That night as I creep out of Little J’s room, the floor creaks. And I smile. Because I know we’re home.