Since my head can’t wrap entirely around the big picture of it all, I’ve focused down on what it means to leave this house. It is a place, not so much of adults, but of my children. The wall of windows in my room that spotlights the kids when they roll around the bed in a perpetual tickle fight. Watching movies on the big TV in “Daddy’s Basement” (known to the adult world as a man cave), curled up together in a jumble on the couch. The glow of the nightlight on the nursery walls as I sat and rocked each baby through the years, alone in the world except for each other.
|The girls, Summer 2007|
The front steps covered in chalk drawings and little piles of stealthily dug up potting soil from Kurt’s freshly planted flowers. The family room where each of my kids at some point cuddled under blankets, watching TV and napping when they were sick.
|The girls, Summer 2009|
Christmas trees and Easter mornings. Valentine’s Day surprises and birthday parties. Even potty training and the eternal time-out corner. This house is where my children began.
|Jack, Summer 2010|
|The kids, Winter 2010|