Thursday, March 7, 2013
When people start checking out this house, commenting on the cabinets and the counter space and the size of the bedrooms and the lack of granite, walk-in closets, and/or man caves, they will walk right past this wall. It won't register in their minds as being significant in any way. They won't have an image of my four year-old daughter trying to sneak and pop up on her toes to make herself appear taller, giggling at her own cleverness. They won't see me gently holding my one year-old son's heels against the baseboard as I take his very first wall measurement. They won't see me wrapping my arms around Bear and begging her to please, please just stop growing up.
And they shouldn't. Because to them, this is not our home. This is a house that they might want to make into their home. Once we take our things and lock that door for the last time, the life we've built here goes with us. And so do the beautiful children whose sweet, perfect heads pressed against that wall every three months for seven years.
But I'm still going to cry.