This was the summer that my husband and I moved our three kids from our “growing-up” house to our “growing-in” house. We wanted to downsize and live a simpler life. We sold our pool table and grill, and moved two blocks away and to the right, where we settled into a town home.
Somehow in the “old house,” the five of us seemed to fit together more. But in retrospect, it was a bit of a fantasy. There, I could always journey back in time to the more secure little children days, before a family’s July Fourth and the fireworks of independence. The memories were in the walls: Play-Doh still stuck under the kitchen table, carpet stains that held a story, blanket forts always in the same place, and banister sliding. But the new house is the truth of today, without a yesterday.
I can only describe the five of us like my grocery cart. There’s pepperoni frozen pizza, hot dogs, organic peaches and soymilk. We’re all right next to each other, but very different. When I look at my three teenagers, they all hold something in their hand that my husband and I have never held.
Through the walls, I hear the faint strumming of my son practicing guitar, lost in his music. I held a violin for a short time. In fifth grade, I took violin lessons from Mr. Simons. I was fascinated with the baby-like rolls of his left cheek holding his violin in place. But one day he told my mother it would be best if I gave it up.
My eldest son arrives home in early evening, grass-stained hands and sweaty all over, explaining his golf stroke. I’ve actually only been on a golf course twice. Once was lying on my back in darkness, scratchy grass and kissing my high school boyfriend. And then with my husband running at dawn, before we were politely told to leave.
My daughter clamors around our bedroom trying to perfect her cartwheel and splits, having recently begun cheerleading lessons. There were no lessons when I was young and it was reserved for popular girls who valued bosoms and boyfriends way before I was ready to put away my Keds and kickball.
I stand in the bookstore, lost in the titles of those who have traveled across the world to find themselves, carrying only their meager belongings. They return with tales of falling in love with strangers in cafés on cobbled streets, or loving themselves on serene mountaintops. That won’t work for my husband and me, devoted to our three children and exposed to a world where the iPhone, “Juicy” clothing and prom limousines are not meager belongings.
We search instead for the soul of our family when we all have different travel plans: My youngest son searches for his melody through his guitar strings. My eldest son searches with discipline and focus, holding a golf club. And my daughter tries to gain mastery over a young woman’s developing body.
My husband and I hope for a more peaceful life with a simpler home, quieter careers, and time to listen closely to how we want to live the next 50 years. And in those moments when, by some magic, we all end up in conversation on our small front porch, I know we have found something important. It is that beautiful weave of independence, yet belonging together. And with so much time ahead of us, we all may make it to faraway cities to fall in love with strangers, and ourselves.
Priscilla Dann-Courtney (cillacourtney@aol.com) is a clinical psychologist.
