My parents are moving.
They haven’t sold their house yet. Nor have they bought a new one.
But their home of nearly 40 years is on the market and they are actively looking. The tide of change is finally rolling onto shore.
I can’t begin to describe how happy I am for them to be making this life-altering decision.
What I’m not nearly as amped about is the idea that my childhood home will be sold to someone else. It will be filled with someone else’s stuff. And it won’t be taken care of as well.
To all the naysayers who think I’m being overly dramatic and highly pessimistic, you clearly don’t know my mom.
She has a combo punch that I never inherited. My parents’ home is in meticulous order, yet is warm and welcoming too. Much like her own mother did, my mom takes great pride in everything looking nice.
Me on the other hand? I feel highly accomplished if I manage to change a light bulb within two weeks of burnout.
I’ve felt so many emotions in their house.
I remember my sister chasing me through the hallway while playing the Jaws theme song on her clarinet. I was terrified at the time, but I have to give her credit now for a genius sibling prank.
My childhood growth is charted by black magic marker dashes on the basement pole – the same pole I used to roller skate around.
I ran into the garage once with my 1979 Buick LeSabre. We never had an automatic garage door so I had to get out of my huge car to close the door every time I backed out. Upon re-entering the beast, I recall cranking my neck backwards to watch where I was going (because using my rear view mirrors would have been too logical a decision) and feeling myself catapult forward into the door that I had just closed. On that day, I learned the importance of making sure you shift into the right gear before stepping down on the gas pedal.
I played catch with my dad in the front yard and hit him in unfortunate areas of his body during my brief, yet memorable, pitching career.
I came home throughout college because my mom still did my laundry. I still can’t get dirt and grass stains out like she can.
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced I will not be driving by that house once they move out. Because, in my mind, it won’t be a home anymore.
And that’s a painful realization to accept.
Heidi Woodard is a working-mom with three children.
Read her Thursdays on momaha.com
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