The House That Built Me

I'm facing the last few days I may ever have in my childhood home.  In certain ways, I have already been forced to say goodbye, but in others, it still contains the memories I have of my family and friends in the house.  In the back room I can see how we first had it arranged with my mom's home office on one side and my play office on the other.  The back room was where my dad saw a spider on my leg, started screaming and told my mom, "it's got her!" as if the spider was the end of my existence and there was nothing they could do to save me.  It was the first room that was repainted when we moved in back in 1993.  It's where I made up dance routines because it held our stereo.

  The spare room was where the Nordic track was kept along with the pull-out couch for overnight visitors.  This spare room became my room at one point, then my mom's room later.  It's where I insisted on sleeping with the overnight visitors and apparently kicking most of them in the ribs as I did "donuts" in my sleep as a kid. When it was my room it was where I talked on the phone to my first boyfriend.  When it was my mom's room, I would sneak in there on rough nights just to snuggle. 

The kitchen holds memories of my dad making "Tom's Tacos," eggs benedict, and chicken marsala.  I remember baking cakes with my dad for my mom's birthday and making M&M cookies with my mom.  Thanksgivings were spent in the kitchen with my dad for the savory things and helping my mom with the sweets.  I climbed the doorways in the kitchen up to the top, a hand and foot on each side.  Countless hours were spent with my mom and my high school friends solving the problems of the world and rehashing school drama. 

The dining room was my craft room, the family dinner table, the laundry folding station, the packing center, the gift wrapping station, the birthday and Easter morning present presentation holder.  The wall had markings of when I was little until I stopped getting any taller.  I also measured my stuffed animals, just in case they grew, too.  They were measured with and without ears, of course.  These markings got painted over a few years ago when the boy who was living with us got angry at me.  This house also saw me grow stronger through my pain. 

The living room held our Christmas tree, the futon when I had friends stay over for sleep overs, Charger games vs. Rugrats TV time drag-outs between my dad and me.  The living room is where I learned to roller blade on the hard wood floors and where my American Girl Dolls learned how to ski.  It's where I learned how to do a front tuck and back-walkover. 

The front porch had my balance beam where I learned back-walkovers on a two by four supported by cinder blocks and cart-wheels on the same lumber.  It's where I occasionally set up my tent for "camping" with my friends.

The little room on the side started as my mom's sewing room but it wasn't insulated so it became a book storage room, then my dolls' room in the summer time.  Eventually it became a throw all for clothes, books, and dolls.  Anything we didn't know what to do with was piled in that room.

The stairs have the banister I wasn't supposed to slide down but did anyway.  It's where I sat and listened the one time I remember my parents yelling at each other.  I remember it started because my dad had undercooked my mom's meat, again.  I now understand that is clearly not all it was.  The one untouched thing in my home is the clock from the Hotel Del which I absolutely adore.  Some how, it survived and to me, represents what things were before things started to go wrong.  It's appropriately placed just before the turn to the upstairs.

The landing was where I decorated with rocks and shells to greet me and my parents as we went to our bedrooms.  The bathroom upstairs is where I sometimes laid when it was super cold during the winter because the vent there was warmer than in my bedroom.  I did this by choice, not because I couldn't just get another blanket.  Also, I could listen to what was happening in the kitchen when the vent was open. 

My bedroom was where I believed I saw Rudolph and the tooth fairy.  It was where I hid my treasures and created my sanctuary.  It's also the first room that was turned over to the boy who lived with us.  It was the first to receive the damage.  The antique door of my once special place has a hole through the bottom. 

My parents' room, I knew little about other than it had a small door at the back of their closet.  I rarely was able to sneak in but when I got to it, I was usually too afraid to actually go into the crawl space.  When I was little I would run into their room at night when I was afraid.  When my dad was away on business I would sleep in his spot with my mom.  We would read our bedtime stories together and tell funny stories.  She would tell me about the birds she used to have and I would make up some fairy tale to tell her.  A sign in their room said "Happiness is being married to your best friend." It's also the room that my dad shut himself away in when he was succumbing to alcoholism.  It became a room to avoid as if it was plagued with sickness. Somehow, the boy took over this room later, too.  Now, it feels haunted with what might have been, or rather, what should have been.

I learned to play ball in the yard and learned to ride my bike there as well.  I played with my first and last dog here.  I climbed trees, had adventures, dug holes, and discovered cement.  I made mud pies and grass pillows, did gymnastics on the swing set, and baptized my animals in the birdbath.  We buried our animals in the yard and had funerals for them, too.  I played hide and seek and made teepees.

This house built me, watched me grow, and stayed here even when I left.  It held such great hopes and dreams for me, watched me crumble, and yet, stood around me.  As I understand it now, it's also been crumbling as the family inside it crumbled.  It's still strong, and still holds the hopes and dreams, but requires a lot of work to get it back to where it once was.  It's damaged but still standing and I'm not ready to leave it behind for good.  It knows me, more than anyone or anything has ever known me.  It defined me and somehow, always will.  Packing everything inside to keep or sell is painful enough but also knowing I can't just take this poor house with me crushes me.  It deserves better.  It did nothing to deserve being deserted, being left behind with holes and damage.  All it ever did was give, and I guess we forgot to give back.  I'm not sure how to say goodbye to the house I love so much, the house that built me.