Homeless, home more

During my teenage years, I spent more time without a place to call home than with one. My mother’s penchant for kicking me out only escalated as I grew until there were days, weeks, then seasons upon seasons when I was not allowed to return. My insecurity regarding my place of habitation has lingered on despite my now grown-up ability to provide for myself. It’s not a constant question of if I’ll continue to have a place to live, but more of a what-if that likes to spring up from time to time, just to remind me to never get TOO comfortable where I am.

Having grown up moving constantly was no help either. I learned that each place was only temporary. On the one hand I became resilient, accepting of change, and eager for adventure. But on the other hand, I became rootless, uninvested, and antsy whenever the calendar was replaced.

Yet, part of me always yearned for a home, a real home, one with safety and love of course, but with comfort and longevity as well. Finally, I was married and ready to start a family of our own, and as luck would have it, the ability to purchase a house sprung up just in time. Finally, after 30 years of barely staying more than a couple of months in one place, I had a home, a real home of my own.

Except for one problem.

The home we purchased was in the middle of Nowheresville New Hampshire. Not exactly my first choice, second choice, or millionth choice of location. But it was cute, and cozy, and filled with the love and safety and space we needed for the dogs and kiddos to come. That house was the longest I’ve ever lived in one place in my whole life. For over a decade we lived there with the snow and the bears and the crotchety neighbors. Both my babies were born there, and a million memories made. You would think I would have loved that house, but the second we had a chance to relocate I threw everything we had up for sale and said goodbye without a second thought.

Now it’s time to say goodbye again. We’ve lived in our Florida apartment for the past five years, the second longest I’ve ever lived anywhere. But my husband and kids are begging for a house. They’re over the whole apartment thing. I get it. Though if it were up to me, we would stay. They want the freedom of a house, a yard, more room, and I want that for them too. But I feel no desire to move. Sure, I’ve been wanting a house too. I have it all dreamed up. I even have the exact neighborhood! But we’re not there yet. Not even close. The dream house I have in mind will need to stay a dream for a little bit longer.

And that sucks.

I’m being impatient, I know. I wanted perfect timing. I wanted a red carpet where everything would fall exactly into place. But apparently that’s not the way it needs to be. Sometimes I can manifest exactly what I want in a matter of minutes, and sometimes it’s decades or more. I can’t pretend to know why. BUT I do know that it does always arrive, just never how I thought it would.

So, we’re moving next month. It’s not my dream home, but it is a home. A lovely home for us for however long we stay there. I suppose sometimes you have to give up the right-now dream to get the bigger dream down the road. And I will make it our home. Along with my husband, we’ll make it safe, and comfortable, and more of a home than I could have even imagined while growing up. I hope someday the what-ifs will shut their stupid face and stop teasing me that the home I’ve created will somehow disappear overnight. Maybe that’s the work I need to accomplish before I can get the keys to that dream home finally in my hand. But while I go work on that, it’s pretty awesome to know that my dogs and kiddos will always have more of a home than I ever did, and will certainly never know less.