Where the inside of my mind leaks onto the screen.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

What Makes a Home?

Due to some road closures, Adam and I ended up taking a different route home from school yesterday.  Fairly confident I could get us through my old neighborhood without too many wrong turns, I chose Wakefield Way as our alternate.

"Do you want to see where Mommy used to live?" I asked him.

"Sure.  Did I ever live there?"

"Nope.  Mom lived here when she was just a little girl.  Like your age."

"Did Aunt Michelle live there?"

"Yep."  (But if he'd asked, "Did Jack live there?" that answer would have been no.)

I tried to think of some great story that happened while I lived in that house, something by which I could define an era, but I quickly realized I could think of very little.

I had a birthday party once.  I sat at the kitchen table making stained glass trinkets with a few neighborhood friends.

I stepped on a nail when my dad was finishing the space above the garage.  It went through my white Keds shoe and right into my foot.  I had to get a tetnus shot.

My sisters and I turned the basement into a school room.  I gave them homework and kept grades and everything.

And that's about it.  The rest of my memories of that time period happened elsewhere.  School.  Friends' houses.  Dance.  Piano.  Church.  Arizona or Idaho.  The 215 and I-15 from Kearns to Sandy.  It seems very little of my life actually had to do with home.

I guess for me, home has always been that place where you keep your stuff, where you rush in for a meal and a bit of respite with your family, where you sleep.  Home is for relaxing.  For breaks.

But when it comes to living, to making memories, it seems like I usually did that somewhere else.  And at first, I thought the connection to "adult me" was all too apparent.  Some of my favorite memories with the kids are of camping, vacations, moments at school, performances, rehearsals, time spent at the park.  It's true that I like being on the go.

(Thanks, Google Street View for a picture of my own house. )
But I can also look and see that I've managed to form plenty of memories within the walls of this home.  This is where all my babies learned to walk and talk.  This is where our friends come to play games.  This is the home we've shared with various friends and family.  This is the home I've painted and decorated and repainted and redecorated.

Yes, it's still a dropping point for me.  Yes, I'm still usually anxious to get back out there.  But I'm grateful to have so much more than just a house.  I'm grateful to be home.