Home Again

I love our new house. Unequivocally. Not only does it satisfy the varied and distinct aesthetic preferences of both Mommy and Mama, but it beautifully, miraculously manages to encompass the entirety of our high demand home shopping wish list. Heart of the city? Check. Rad school district? Check. Hers and hers sinks? Double check. Despite the glory of a finished basement, energy efficient appliances, and an additional 1200 livable square feet, I've been recently struck by an aching twinge for our old stomping grounds at 56th and Blaisdell. It remains surprisingly difficult to learn the daily rhythms and intricacies of a new home, even with my extensive childhood training as an Army brat. Here, the morning light streams through north facing windows, rather than arriving from the south. Footsteps echo across wooden stairs, rather than being silently absorbed by the length of carpeted steps that seamlessly connect up from down. The front yard remains a February mystery, comprised of toddler snow forts, icicles, and the occasional blade of grass straining to play peek-a-boo with the sidewalk. My daily negotiations with our new house continue to feel strangely tentative as I carefully unearth the native whisperings that transform house to home.

Lili pooped her pants while sleeping the other night. While fully potty trained during the day, we've not yet made the formidable leap in to evening dryness. Thankfully, this meant she was wearing a diaper, and I found her curled up on her tummy with lanky arms and legs tucked beneath her, stink bottom raised high in the air and covered by her beloved pink blanket. As I stealthily initiated the twilight diaper change, she rolled over on to her back and stared at me through the dimness, waited until a new diaper was securely fastened in place, and stretched out her arms to be rescued from bed. I picked her up gingerly and we began pacing the floor, rocking and humming quietly, her sweat-tinged head heavy against my collarbone. I was struck by the realization that this once nightly ritual had not yet translated to our new house, nor to Lili's new bedroom. When she was a baby, and especially as a young infant who nursed three or four times a night, I became accustomed to our nightly summit and the intangible language of darkness in our home. The sound of dogs snoring. Scott Blankenship on Classical MPR. The angled shadows of my daughter's room at 1:30 a.m....3:00 a.m....3:30 a.m....5:00 a.m. For the first time since our epic move, and since leaving the only house in which I'd ever known Lili, the distance between "then" and "now" burrowed sleepily into my arms. Legs that once wrapped handily around my waist now hung almost to my knees, and the weight of what initially appeared to be the most fragile of elements now made my arms tremble with exhaustion. While pacing the length of my daughter's new room, in our new house, holding the best part of myself tightly against my chest, I felt it. Amidst the increasingly familiar creak of decades old floor boards and the drone of neighborhood street lamps, I felt it.

There.

Home.

Again.