Our Last Night

We walked back in tonight. After almost a week away. And instead of breathing a sigh of relief for being back in our own space after a spell, I found an overwhelming desire to turn around, run out the door, and not come back. Because if I never walked back in, and saw it again, and stood in the spaces that have become our story, I wouldn’t have to say goodbye. 

I haven’t written much about the house that is our home since we are selling. I didn’t want to say anything about the house that would make it too personal. Too much someone else’s house for someone who might be interested in making it their own. But as we close on our new home tomorrow, I find a profound pull to capture my memories of this place before they are out of sight. Even as we still await finding its next owner. As this is the home that will forever be our first. And the place of so many beginnings. 

I will never forget our very first night at 613. It was just the two of us, after a long day of unpacking and lifting and lots of people helping us get settled. We lay in our bed, in our new room, in our new house, and I thought, “did we make the right decision?” You see, once again, proof of all proofs that change has always been difficult for me. We were transitioning from an apartment to a house. It somehow felt as if we were growing up, that very day. And it both excited and scared every bit of crap out of me. But the next morning, after sleeping safely and soundly in our beautiful new space, I knew, this was the place we were meant to stay.

And it was there — and that moment, that turn of events — that brought us here. To this very place we are now. And the life that has grown here, for the Mister and for me, has been eventful, to say the least.

We brought each of the boys home to this place. They all slept in the great green room. The room with BABY printed on the wall… The letters that I am unsure if I should put back up again in the new house, as our “baby” is not so baby anymore. The room that the hubs so proudly painted. The room with the black and white polka-dotted chair. Sometimes in the right corner, sometimes in the left. It was the spot where I spent hours upon hours upon hours rocking and shushing and feeding and snuggling three different babes. The corner where I sometimes wept … at times because it all seemed so hard… At times because it all seemed so beautiful. 

And the other bedroom upstairs where we first went to a “big boy bed”. Where they all learned to say their prayers. And where stacks of books have been read. And the Jack n Jack {as I so fondly and aptly named it} which became a place of hustle and bustle post-baths and for brushing of teeth. 

The place in the kitchen that once housed the table that cost us 75 dollars for the set at Frank Solich’s garage sale. The corner that later, had a couch, then a train table, and eventually, a round black table with enough chairs for our whole crew. The place where we’d talk about our thankfuls for the day. And sing the Johnny Appleseed song.

The stairs where each of the boys learned to crawl up and down. And the floors that are the owners of each of their first steps. The walls that their first words bounced off of. And the spaces where they had their first bumps and scrapes. 

The front room that began empty. But was always the perfect place for our Christmas tree. The place that soon got a couch, chairs, red paint. And later, morphed into a room where I learned to play guitar and the boys spent countless hours building and dreaming with Legos. 

The basement, once perfect for new year’s parties, and later became the ideal location for a bounce house and riding on plasma cars and the like. 

The front porch that we stood on and snapped pictures of the very first day of one of our own heading off to elementary school. The driveway where the girl across the way would ride her bike back and forth which later became the driveway where the oldest would learn to ride his strider. And the middlest would ride anything he could find. And chalk would become drawn all over, every day that was warm enough for such things. The outdoor spaces that were home to endless play and that hill– the one that the oldest and middlest would whizz down on plasma cars and strider bikes. The hill that we walked down to go see the Halloween house every day in the month of October. And where the Oldest and middlest would run down to see their very first girlfriends. 

The great room. Oh, the great room. The place where everything else happened. The birthday parties. The play dates. The walking and walking and walking of babies who would cry for anywhere from 3-6 hours a day. And the place with the nook that we first found odd and then soon realized it was the perfect spot for little boys to climb in and out of. 

The backyard, where we would run in sprinklers, and slide down the mini slide, and splash in the water table, and swing. Where we’d sometimes play duck duck goose. And where firepitting was the perfect backdrop for the clear night sky full of bright stars. 

The walks to HyVee whether to HyVee Gas for slushies or with the wagon to the store for groceries. And to two parks close enough to walk to or jog to or take a little stroll.

And our bedroom. The room where, after the kids would go to bed for the night, the hubs and I would hang and I would often spend an hour or two writing. Writing so much of what makes up all of the entries on this blog.

The house. The whole place. That when we looked at it the first time, was just that… A house. And over these years, has become a home. Our very own life-sized memory jar.  

So when I walked in tonight, I was reminded that we had absolutely made the very best decision almost 8 years ago. Because the house has been everything we had wanted and more than we ever could have dreamt it would be. Not only is it a great house. It grew with us. And let us go from being two… to many more.

When I saw him there tonight, pulling books from the shelves, I had a flashback of bringing him home. To here. And the night that we finally moved him up here.