My parents moved out of their house this week. Not just any house, the house I had my third birthday party at and graduated from preschool at. The house I had water balloon fights in the backyard of, built snowman in front of and played endless games of Atari and "Red light, Green light" at. The house where at night my mom would flicker the outside lights when it was time for us to come inside (cuz at that time stranger danger lived in bushes and only came out in the daytime). The same house I got my first private phone line in, watched every episode of Beverly Hills 90210 in and had my first beer in. You know, the same house with the same garage where the car I totaled when I got my drivers' license lived and the one I stumbled in drunk weekend after weekend in high school and during college summers. But it was also the same house I collapsed at after my first day at my first job. As well as the house I later had all my wedding gifts shipped to and my son's bris at. It was MY house. My parents simply paid the mortgage.
So I stood on the driveway after cleaning out 40 years of toiletries in the bathroom and crying over packing up books that I read to my kids as babies (who are now 8 3/4 as he puts it and 6 going on 16). And then I realized how absolutely creepy it is that my kids are still having Sunday night dinners and Passover sedars at the same house I went through puberty in. I'm starting to see where I get my inability to adapt to change from. I mean, seriously? At 42 I was moving my parents out of the same empty house I remember moving into at 3 years old. Am I the only one who thinks that's insane?
But I will say this house has done a great job. It's walls hugged our family for 4 decades through childhood, adolescence and into adulthood. In fact, I have dirt under my nails from all four decades to prove it.
Good bye, House. No one will ever love you like I did. Even if it was kind of an unhealthy relationship.