Our House

I think I am one of not too many people that can say growing up, I lived my whole life in the same house. I was brought home from the hospital to my house, and lived there until I went to college. A year later, my parents sold the house. I loved that house. If I could, I would go back in time and meet Joe before my house was no longer mine. So he could see where I was raised, where my memories are, where I became me.

I can still picture that house in my mind perfectly. I remember the pictures on the wall. Where my mom hung her apron. Where we kept our color books. What my parents bed spread looked like. What the house looked like on Christmas morning with the furniture rearranged for us all to sit in "our" spots and open presents. What the dead bolt sounded like when you locked it. Where the hollow tile in the kitchen was. Where my brand new bike with sesame street streamers was parked in the back yard for my birthday. I can still hear the sound my moms feet made on the tile when she walked down the hallway from the stairs. I can still see our waffle maker in the bottom cupboard. That house holds so so many memories.

It breaks my heart that my children won't have that same luxury. We could very well live in 5 or 6 homes before we are finally able to settle down. Gabs will only be 5 1/2 when we move from this house. Will she even remember any of it? Will she remember the sky light in the kitchen? Or the sound of our creaky garage door? Will she remember that we've marked her growth in our closet? And where she's marked Gwen's and then continued illustrating on the wall? I have this horrible, sinking feeling, that this house, the house they spent their toddlerhood, will be forgotten in their minds.

Today as we were sitting quietly eating lunch, I looked over and saw Gabriella doing one of my most favorite things. Looking out the window. Our table sits in a small little space. It's an irritatingly small space. Only big enough for the smallest table for four that was once Joe's great aunts table. There isn't any room to put the leaves out, and our place mats overlap when we eat dinner. It's this little space that I complain about the most in this house. But it's this space where so many memories lie. Because right next to our itty bitty table is a huge window that looks onto the street and side walk.

Everyday we sit at this table and look out the window. At breakfast we see kids walking to school and buses driving past. Gabriella learned to say "tree" and "bus" from looking out our window. We see car after car drive by. She's learned her colors by telling me what colors each car was. At lunch we see groups of ladies in their business casual attire and aerobic shoes walking their routine lap around the neighborhood. We watch moms pulling wagons with little ones to go pick up the half day kindergartners. We talk about the retired couples who walk their dogs rain or shine...but mostly rain. The girls always just stare out this window. At dinner time Joe and I are able to sit forever after a meal and talk while Gabriella scoots over to sit on the table while her feet rest on the ledge and watch skateboarders ride by and neighborhood kids riding bikes. It's this window that provides the most light in our house.

So, as we move from place to place I will try to not just take pictures of my children, but take pictures of my children in their environment, their surroundings, their home. So that maybe, just maybe one day they will look at those pictures and remember that old couch, or family picture on the wall. That they might remember the color their walls were painted and the spot where we dropped our shoes. Because, after all, it will be their house, and that is where memories are made.