Updated: Feb. 19, 2021
Originally Published: April 14, 2014
We’ve decided to sell our house and embark on a new journey. I can already hear the envy in your voice—who wouldn’t want to pack up a home filled with memories after six years, especially with three kids underfoot? I assure you, it’s a whirlwind of emotions.
“The aim is to present it as if it’s someone else’s home,” a realtor bluntly tells me.
I dive into the cleaning: carpets, walls, and everything in between. Those pesky nail polish stains, dirty handprints, and random crayon doodles are all finally wiped away. I tackle the closets, donate furniture, and discard ancient snacks while sorting through a treasure trove of forgotten items. Coins (my husband’s), Lego pieces (the kids’), and mini lotions (mine) are gathered. I pack away clothes and blankets my kids have outgrown, but in the process, I stumble upon memories.
I uncover a photograph my husband took just before he proposed. I’m deep in thought, staring at a VHS case in a video rental store—remember those days? I linger over it, and for some reason, I leave it on my dresser.
Next, I tuck away frames filled with pictures of my boys—some with their sweet, chubby baby cheeks, others showcasing their mischievous toddler grins. I hide their beloved bedtime stories and pack up the “daily sheets” documenting their daycare years—it’s hard to believe I’ve saved them all. The water table goes out to the curb, a bittersweet farewell as I recall the joy it brought my boys before the harsh winter cracked it.
I clear out my closet, liberating myself from the skinny jeans. I finally toss my law school notes, though I hold on to that hopeful college essay about The Social Contract, hidden under the bed for safekeeping. Letting go of my mother’s rocking chair, once a cherished relic, feels necessary—it’s broken, after all.
I scrub and arrange, trying to create the illusion that we never lived here. Yet, these walls hold our stories. This is where my sons learned to crawl and walk. We paced these hallways, rocking our newborns to sleep. That rooftop deck? It’s where we sought solace on summer nights with my spirited firstborn. And that front stoop was my companion during the peaceful days of maternity leave.
The scratch on the kids’ bedroom door? That’s from a tantrum when my son kicked it in frustration, knocking it into the bookshelf. The marks on the kitchen cabinets come from bike rides through the house during long winter days.
And this staircase? It’s where I labored in anticipation of my first child, counting and measuring those early contractions. Each time we brought our babies home from the hospital just four blocks away, we stepped through that front door. In the corner sits the rocking chair where I nursed all three boys while “Baby Mine” played softly in the background.
Now, we’re moving on. I know it will be beneficial for us—a new state, new schools, new careers, and fresh friendships. It’s time for a new chapter.
Yet, I will miss these familiar playgrounds, the streets where my kids know every turn, and the neighbors who feel like family.
As I clean and declutter, I realize it’s not about the bricks and mortar. Our home is built on the love and memories we’ve created, and those will always accompany us. It’s not the physical space that defines us; it’s the experiences and connections that shape who we are.
For now, we’ll do our best to make this house look like someone else’s home. But as we prepare to leave, I know that in some way, it will always be ours.
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Summary:
As a family prepares to move after years in their beloved home, they reflect on cherished memories tied to every corner and crevice. The process of packing reveals deep-seated emotions, highlighting that a house is merely a structure; it’s the love and experiences shared within that make it a true home. As they look forward to new adventures and opportunities, they carry their memories with them, understanding that home is wherever they go.