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Monday, August 1, 2011

This House is Home

I never knew what to say when people would ask, "where are you from?" Our family moved around so much... there wasn't a city, a house, a state that I could answer them with. Wherever our family was became home and that was good enough. It was a great family. And it never bothered me much, that I didn't have a physical place I called "home".

Most of my mom's family live in the Savannah area and we'd go there for Christmas and Thanksgiving now and then growing up. I think I came to think of it as a sort of home. But then we'd be there and they'd have to give us directions to the Piggly-Wiggly or they'd talk about high tide and I'd realize Savannah wasn't home. It was their home, but it wasn't mine.

Georgia was the closest thing I ever had to a geographical home. I guess that's why I applied to three colleges here even though I went to high school in England and Illinois. I wonder if that's a universal thing, people gravitating towards home, or if it's just something I did out of a subconscious need to belong somewhere.

Once B Daddy and I got engaged we started looking for a home. This house was the 2nd place our realtor showed us, 2nd out of what was eventually dozens. B Daddy felt home right away. It took me much longer.  We came back twice with the realtor and brought our parents and our friends to see it before we made an offer. We'd walk up on the back porch to peek in the windows and imagine ourselves out there with a glass of wine staring out into the trees.

B Daddy moved in before we got married and slept in the guest room. His grandparents gifted us a king size bed for a wedding present and I remember the day we went out and brought it home, strapped to the top of his green Ford Explorer. We wrestled it down the tiny hallway, set it on the box springs and jumped on it like little kids.

On our wedding night we came back to this house and B Daddy picked me up and carried me over the threshold and down the same tiny hallway to our room for the first time ever.

That king size bed was where I lay the night I miscarried our first child. B Daddy held my hand and drove to the drug store at 11pm to get Tylenol and I curled up in that bed and wept when it was over.

We came here -home- from the doctor's appointment telling us our second baby too was gone and that hot afternoon we knelt and planted red and white flowers in the front bed to remember.

I cried the night we got in the car and left this home for the last time as a couple with no kids. I cried all the way to the hospital and wore sunglasses while I checked in so no one could see my ridiculous tears. And when we drove down the street three days later, the first thing I saw were the signs on the black front door welcoming Elijah Brock to his home

Our daughter and son now share bunk beds in the guest room and so there is no guest room. There is no half bath. No laundry room. And we'd like to build a porch and put up crown molding and re-tile the master bath. Friends ask us how long will you stay? Will you move when the kids get a little older? Won't you need more space?

For now the answer is, we'll stay as long as we can and the kids will continue to share rooms and I'll fold laundry in the garage. Because this place is long on memories and this place is rich in love. The feeling of belonging is thick in the air.

This house is home.



 
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