Home Is Where The Heart Is... (or so they say)

I hate my house.

I'm no hater. And I don't hate a lot of things...but boy OH boy do I hate my house. To most, it's pretty much like every other suburban cookie-cutter cape house on Long Island. Vinyl siding. Decorative window shutters. Small kitchen. Two baths. Postage stamp-size lawn. One car garage. Chrysanthemums and tomato plants popping up in a micro-miniature patch of garden in the yard. I should love my house. Anyone else would love my house. But I don't. And I make no apologies.

"It's a good house" friends say. "You could dormer/do a kitchen/put in a deck..." they envision, all starry-eyed. Me? I day dream of the family that will live here next. Like a puppy you hope to find a good family for, I just cannot give my house the life it deserves to have living in it.

I moved into this house with my parents in 1976. I was five. My younger brother was born here. Took his first steps in the living room. I painted the walls of my teenage bedroom (now my oldest son's blue room) lavender with flowers, here. Watched my mom make family dinners while heroically fighting cancer here. I cranked up my stereo here. Had my first kiss here. Hosted glitzy pre-prom parties here. Drove away to college from here. I lived here. Mom died here. I left here.

For eight years I lived away, created a fresh new life, while the house was left with a fractured part of our family in it. Then one day the house was an opportunity. "It's a good house" he said. "I want something new" I said. "We could dormer/do a kitchen/put in a deck" he said. "I want to start fresh", I said. "But it's a good house" he said. "Okay. But we won't stay for long", I said.

That was twelve years ago. The kitchen is the same, but older and now much more outdated. There's no dormer. No deck. Yes there are good memories for me and my kids in this house, like first steps, the birth of my youngest, but they collide with the ones of my own childhood. It's not nostalgic like some would imagine. It's memory overload. If memories could be like the mall on Christmas Eve, that's what it's like for me living behind these walls. It's crowded.

I actually re-purchased the house for a second time in my life last November. One of the many ridiculous things that has happened because of divorce. I did not want to uproot my kids so I did it for them, but it's ironic all the same.

Of course I know how lucky I am to have a warm and secure place to live and even though I don't have the means or motivation to renovate or enhance it, I focus instead on the heart of my home - -my kids. I substitute dormers and granite counter tops for miniature vegetable gardens and a few flower beds. I fix what needs to be fixed. Do what needs to be done. It is my obligation to my family. And best of all, I move about these walls with the comfort and security of my children always in the forefront of my mind. I dream of the family that will get to live here next... Because, I'm told, it's a good house.

But I still hate it.