The kids and I have been living in our “new” house for almost three weeks now. I can’t quite get past the feeling that I’m just visiting. I catch myself thinking that I will call the former owner and ask her why she chose that color for the laundry room, or if she has a trick for making the shower stop leaking. I picture the two of us sipping hot tea and chatting about how the snag in the carpet happened, and maybe kneeling side by side to scrub at a pesky spot on the kitchen floor. Then I realize that if I hate the paint (which I do), I should change it. And if the shower leaks (and it so does), it’s mine to fix. The house - and the yard, the appliances, the front door that blows open every once awhile, despite being locked - they are mine now.  

And so is the anxiety of living “alone” again.  

It is technically true that I don’t live alone, as I’m very lucky to have three constant companions in Roan, Posey and Penelope. But I’m the only GROWN UP in our home, and that means that all dog vomit, paper cuts, unpaid bills, mystery smells, spiders and scary night noises fall firmly into my domain. When you don’t have another grown up to turn to and say snidely, “Can you deal with the laundry FOR ONCE?” you tend to feel alone. And you know what? I can deal with alone. It’s the transiency I would really like to shed.  

It’s a fact that my concept of “home” has taken a sound whacking over the past few years. The last home I owned was in Washington, which I left when my crazy (then) husband - side note, he’s STILL crazy, just no longer my husband - threatened to kill me and my children. I left suddenly. I left without a plan. Hell, I left without my toothbrush and most of my clothes. I left with the knowledge that if I stayed, something terrible was going to happen. I left without knowing where the four of us would sleep that night. However, thanks to the goodness and courage of my friend Cheryl and her husband Gordy, we found a new home, albeit temporary. The four of us slept in their family room on mattresses lined up side by side on the floor. Believe it or not, we had fun. We played and laughed and watched goofy movies. While they slept peacefully at night, I cried. Time passed. I spent dozens of hours and thousands of dollars in family court, fighting to protect myself and my little family. And when that was taken care of, we moved yet again into a space that I never dreamed I would inhabit after the age of 18. Yes, friends and neighbors. You know it. My parents basement.  

There is a reason why we grow up and leave our parents homes, and both my parents and I are painfully aware of those reasons. If Alex Trebec had a category entitled, “Reasons Why Parents Should Avoid Co-habitation With Their Adult Offspring“, my mom and dad and I would ace it. 1. Knowing Too Much About Your Parents Bathroom Habits 2. Being Unable to Lie around in Your Underwear on Saturdays 3. Wishing Nobody Could Hear You Whisper Scream at Your Children, etc. That said, we made it work. And despite my sassy mouth, I will never be able to thank my parents sufficiently for taking us in and holding us close.  

And now....here we are. In our home. And while my kids sleep peacefully, I clean and I sing and I pray. And I wait for the day that home feels like home again.