Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Lookit those babies. BABIES!!!
We were so happy. Obviously. Look at those stupid smiles!! Man Nick looks young.
We'd just closed on our first house, we were having our first meal in it together. Pizza, ordered in. But we had a fire going in the fireplace- OUR FIREPLACE. I was just about to graduate from college, Nick was living in Charleston and finishing some sub school or other, and really, we just had it all going for us. The house was old and gorgeous, built in 1912, great neighborhood with sidewalks (this was important to me for some unknown reason). The owners took our first offer (bc we were suckers and didn't know that we should have offered less) and Nick already had plans for the remodeling we (okay he) were going to do.
I woke up in this house and drove to my first day at the Naval Hospital (ward 4F, post surgical.) I drove home to this house and cried the first time a doctor yelled at me (Dr Platz, he yelled at me a lot more after that. I hope he gets a flat tire every time it rains.) I filled out the applications to finally change my name from the computer in that house. We celebrated our third anniversary, had our first proper Christmas together in that house.
I took my first pregnancy test in that house. Not really, I did a blood draw at work and suckered an intern into letting me order myself a test under his name. But I drove home the next morning to that house to tell Nick that Ava was coming. I mowed my first lawn at that house after Nick left for his first full deployment. I got massive in that house, and loved every single minute of my first pregnancy. I welcomed my husband back to that house, woke up at one in the morning one night because it was time.
I brought Ava home to that house. She learned to walk there. (MUCH LATER) I drove from that house to my first day on a new floor, the oncology floor. I drove home to that house and cried after each death, but that house is where I realized my calling: I could help people at the end of their lives. I had something to offer. I got pregnant again in that house, said goodbye to Nick again, welcomed him home again, woke up in the middle of the night again in labor. Brought home Scott. He learned to walk there.
Drove to work on the labor deck, my last assignment in the Navy, from that house. Drove home and cried the day I delivered an 18 weeker, cried because it was so awful, but also because even though I wasn't doing what I thought I wanted to do (end of life care in a cancer setting) I'd still been able to help that mama when she needed me. It's different, but it's the same.
Got out of the Navy. Got pregnant again, brought home another baby. Finished the remodel. Put the house on the market. MY HOUSE. My home. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving it. How would Warren learn to walk if we left the house where his brother and sister had learned? How could we add our (much wanted) fourth baby if we couldn't bring her home to the house where we'd brought everyone else? How could I ever learn every nook and cranny of another house, a house that I'd never EVER love as much as I loved the Connecticut Avenue house?!?!
I'd grown up in the military, I'd never before been attached to a house. In fact, I've never lived anywhere as long as I lived on Connecticut Avenue. Five years. I guess that's not true, I must have been in Biloxi for six years. But still.
Five years. That was my home. I still get stabby when I think of the girl who bought it changing things. Did she repaint my gorgeous beige walls? Probably. No one likes beige anymore.
Those five years in that house were the best five years of my life UP TO THAT POINT. And the six months we spent in Connecticut were the best six months of my life UP TO THAT POINT. Wonder of all wonders, Warren learned how to walk there. Turns out, the Connecticut Avenue house wasn't magic.
It was us. WE were the magic ingredient.
This London house will be the closet we've come to spending five years anywhere, and we'll most likely leave at the three and a half year mark. But I don't care anymore. I've never been attached to a house like Connecticut Avenue, and whether that's good or bad, I don't really know. It's probably not good OR bad, it just is.
And to wrap up this rambling nonsense, my favorite quote about our badass future.
Mama Kat (as always) using prompt numero uno, "choose a photo from a previous May and write a poem or blog post about it."