Home

Write about your dream home.

My youngest son sits in our velvet swivel chair, staring out the living room window. Damp shower towel around his waist. Picking at his wrinkly toes. They are not a baby’s toes, but not yet gross like a teenaged boy’s, still kissable (at least when freshly showered).

“Ok. Can you please go brush your teeth?” Eyeroll, emphatic hand gestures, “Jeez mom, can’t I just LOOK for a minute?”

Seeing the earnest wisdom in my little boy’s request I say, “Sure. What are you looking at?”

“Home.” He replies simply. Contentedly.

My eyes prick with tears.

We have lived in this home the entirety of his life. It’s nothing fancy. Just a small ranch. But there’s a big playroom with all the toys organized. Book shelves full of books. There are comfy couches with pillows and blankets that smell like lavender and mint. Family collections of PEZ and Mold-a-Ramas. School artwork is hung, then saved in memory boxes, then replaced by new artwork. Collages of family photos on most walls. The kitchen is yellow and during spring and summer, filled with fresh cut flowers from our gardens. The yard is large and fenced, with vegetables and flower beds and there’s a small wooded area in the back, perfect for forts. It may not be fancy, but it’s cozy and comfortable and everything I ever dreamed of.

You see, as a child, I lived in more houses and apartments than I can count. For several years my mother and I couch surfed to whatever relative would take us in. I went to a different school for every grade. Evictions don’t always follow the school year, so many grades I would have to switch mid-year.

Most of our things didn’t get saved from one house to the next. Left behind, tossed or given away, to ease the last minute moves. A small collection of stuffed animals I adored so much, was thrown out when our storage unit was flooded, in the 4th grade. The same age as my son is now. Probably the same amount of animals he keeps in his bed, alone. I have seen maybe a dozen photographs of myself or my family from my childhood. I have no mementoes or family heirlooms. Even the few memories I have are organized by which house we lived in at the time.

When my husband and I bought this house people talked about how it was “the perfect starter home.” From the very beginning I have known that it was actually my forever home. Slowly, over the years, I have created the home I desperately craved as a little girl. We have outgrown it a bit. We could certainly afford more bells and whistles. Or at the very least, more convenient storage. But every time we have considered a different house, I just couldn’t pull the trigger. First off, I get sweaty and my breath gets shallow, when I even contemplate the idea of physically moving. Second, this is my home, created as a labor of love. Moving from one house to another my entire childhood was hard enough, but at least none of those places were ever a home in the truest sense of the word.

I have poured my heart and soul into making this place a safe anchor for my family. I’ve done such a good job that usually my children take it for granted and treat it like a trash barrel. So tonight when my baby boy wanted to take a minute to just look, to just be in his home? Of course you can baby, this little victory, I made it for you.