Almost everyone I knew in high school had moved two or three times. Sometimes it even made me jealous. It sounded adventurous. And I always hated explaining to my nomadic peers why I had a child’s foot prints on my bedroom ceiling. “I slept in a bunk bed, man! I was pretending to be Spider-Man. Duh!” That never gained me a lot of street cred. Or girlfriends.
I had a very stable family. We’ve had the same house for 23 years. Now that I’m older, I know how fortunate I was. So, naturally, I had mixed feelings when I learned my mom decided to sell the family home. She stays with her boyfriend most of the time. My sister and I have left. And my mom isn’t very handy with a hammer. I can’t blame her.
When she closed the deal, though, a part of me wanted to return home and relive the salad days. I miss the rolling laughter I’d get after scaring my sister by popping out from under her bed. And I still think there’s some musical value in playing percussion with the pots and pans in our kitchen. Well, those days are gone. Unless, of course, I’m willing to face criminal charges or become a social outcast.
I’m an adult (in theory). In fact, I even helped Mom maneuver around all of the contractor jargon when she moved. I warned her that, yes, the home inspector would have to search through her closet in a professional, not perverted, way. My mom has little patience for contractors, a group of people with which she has had terrible luck.
In the end, we had so much fun griping about the shoddy workmanship of some of her hires — she would have better luck if she became a member of Angie’s List — that the entire process became sort of a bonding experience for us. I guess I’m willing to let my childhood home go after all. Just as long as the new family doesn’t disturb my hidden toy stash in the attic.
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