Going home again

By Cooper

A month ago we closed on our house, moved out, and since we had recently discovered some "unforseen," yet critical, issues in our new house that had to be immediately addressed, we didn't get to move in -- the carpenters did.

My husband, the four kids, the dog Otis and I were homeless.

We had known for about a week or two prior to having to vacate our old house that the chances of us moving into our new house immediately were slim to none. With the holidays looming and school vacation around the corner, you can imagine my state of mind. Let's just say it wasn't pretty.

My mother and father insisted we stay with them.

"Oh, geez, Mom, you don't want us, believe me," I repeated over and over.

I called an apartment complex nearby to see if we could rent a unit for a month or two and made the unfortunate mistake of telling the rental manager that there were six of us and a dog. We were flat out rejected.

"Mom, I am sorry to do this to you, but I think we need to move in for a few weeks," I found myself saying a couple of days before the closing.

It was a bit surreal to even repeat it out loud: "I (and my enormous family) are moving in with my parents."

But, I will admit, I was more worried about how they were going to take it. Their house is calm, neat and very, very clean. We are not any of those things. In fact we represent pretty much the opposite of my parents' lifestyle.

"Oh, it will be fun! It will be Camp Christmas!" my mother beamed.

Most of Mom's friends thought she had a screw loose to agree to take us in, let alone encourage it.

"This is what it is all about," she told them.

Wouldn't you know, despite the fact we killed their washer and dryer (the tiny things couldn't keep up with all the action), the dog's barking, the spilled juice, the endless runs to the grocery store and the insane amount of wrapping paper and boxes that came out of that house on December 26th, it was Camp Christmas. It was more than that, too.

My 6-year-old daughter got to hold hands with her grandma every night before bed and listen as my mom told her what it was like when she was a little girl.

My 1-year-old walked around the house calling "Mommmmmmy," his new name for my mother, which, as you can imagine, pleased her to no end.

My dad and my 8-year-old daughter built a robot on his workbench and spent three hours one Sunday afternoon teaching each other how to snowboard down the hill in the backyard.

My 4-year-old son slept for the first time in a room by himself and in a "big" bed, not a toddler bed, which he tells just about everyone he meets and, when he was good, my mom played "Avatar" with him on the computer.

As for me, I looked forward every morning to sharing a cup of coffee with my mom and to having dinner with my parents in the evening. On Christmas night, after the kids were asleep and the extended family was gone, my mom, my dad, my husband and I opened a bottle of wine and giggled for an hour or two.

Along the way, I learned a few things:

• Love overlooks chaos.
• Grandparents, on a daily basis, add memories to childhood.
• I think my husband would agree, my parents are our best friends.

And: You can go home again.

At least for a couple of weeks.

Cooper is the parent of two girls and two boys, ages eight to one. She lives in Pittsburgh, Pa., with her husband and children.

Comments

[Susan]

What a wonderful post. I think you gave your children and your parents the most wonderful Christmas present this year, family and love. The only thing I have to add is...

"You can and SHOULD go home again. Once and awhile at least."

[Meredith]

What an amazingly sweet and touching entry. Good for all of you guys. It sounds like the very full house is full of love.

[Lindsey]

Wow! That was really nice to read! I am pretty lucky to still have my grandparents, and my parents so I can trully appreciate your story. I have so many great memories with my grandparents, and now my son will have great memories with his great grandparents as well as his grandparents! Thanks for sharing that!