My in-laws home was so much more than just any-old-house.
Designed and built by my father-in-law, Bill, their retirement home rests upon over 50 acres of land on the banks of Lake Mattamuskeet, a National Wildlife Refuge found 30 miles from the nearest stop light.
The land is full of migratory birds, black bears, and deer, to name a few. Rich, black soil supports vibrant family-owned farmland as far as the eye can see.
My mother-in-law, Betty, grew up in her grandmother’s house next door. They didn’t have electricity until she was 12 years old and used a horse before they purchased a car.
Bill was raised with his large family across the Lake. Ten years apart in age, they met shortly after Betty graduated from high school and the rest is history.
They moved to Chesapeake, VA to give their four children more opportunities and moved right back to retire in Fairfield the second my husband graduated high school more than 30 years ago.
Bill passed away in the home when our oldest, Aurora, was only 4 months old. Betty has remained, ever since.
Yes, this house and its land was so much more than any-old home.
It’s where our little family spent every single Easter and Thanksgiving.
This is where our girls picked figs, peaches and pears in the Summer and grapes, apples and pecans in the Fall.
This is where they learned to ride a 3-wheeler, shoot a gun, and befriend a domesticated deer named Jane Doe.
This is the place my children bottle fed lambs and calves, where we roasted oysters over open fire and dyed easter eggs.
Fairfield Methodist Church is where all four of our girls were baptized. It’s where they listened to their Granny play the piano and received treats for the children’s sermon.
When I close my eyes, I feel the soft wind brush my hair. The air is filled with the scent of ripe figs so visceral, I can taste them. I hear the crunch of the pecan hulls underneath my feet and soak in the stunning sunset over the pier my husband built in the lake.
Yes, this home is more than just any-old-house.
It’s a symphony of senses.
It’s a holder of some of our family’s most precious memories that we will carry with us for a lifetime.
At 88 and 93 years old, this moment has been building for decades and yet much like the arrival of a newborn, I still feel wholly unprepared.
While Emmett’s dad passed away shortly after our eldest was born, his mother has remained a steadfast presence in our family’s life.
Home to the great pecan tree where our girls picked up its bountiful offering numbering in the thousands, Fairfield, NC was our family’s escape from the rat race of city life. Fairfield was where we spent every Easter and Thanksgiving. Offering its wide-open spaces and clear, starry skies filled with the ever-present sounds of migratory birds, frogs and the wind, Fairfield felt like home.
Home to the pool, where my dad taught me how-to-swim, my father’s top-floor condo overlooking Towne Point Park and the Elizabeth River, offered expansive views. A docent at the Chrysler Museum for years, my dad’s walls were covered in beautiful and valuable art and yet; the girls cartwheeled through the living room as if it were home.
My dad moved into a long-term care last month and this month, my mother-in-law moves into a nearby senior community providing us the opportunity to see them more often.
Emmett and I are a decade apart and yet here we both are; cleaning out his mom and my dad’s home. Discovering old photographs and letters. Claiming furniture and special mementos.
“If there’s one thing we can always count on,” I explain to my daughter, “it’s change.”
No matter how much we wish we could freeze time or return to the way things were before, change is inevitable.
We may not be able to force the way things change, but we are able to control how we respond to it.
Entering her first year of middle school, my eldest daughter is enduring a lot of change that frankly, she’s not a huge fan of.
Riding the school bus for the first time, switching classes that are much larger than elementary and the loss of the familiarity of her previous school.
Change is hard, for better or worse.
In these beginning moments of great change, her emotions are running hot and cold. The smallest of problems are monumental. It reminds me of a conversation I had with her when she was just four years old.
I had just given birth to our third daughter, resulting in me leaving my two and four year old to play on their own while I nursed their baby sister to sleep.
They would barge in with battles over a toy or to ask if they could have some pretzels, waking the baby from her near slumber.
It was time for an intervention.
I sat them both down and discussed the difference between “Big Problems” and “Little Problems”. I actually recorded it so that I could share it with my friends and I’m so glad I did because there’s a precious moment when the lightbulb goes off in my four year-old’s head. She got it.
Big problems are when you are bleeding, someone is at the door or there’s a bonafide emergency. Little problems are snack requests or arguments over toys.
The same still holds true. Sometimes in moments of stress and vulnerability, even the smallest problems seem overwhelming. But if we take a moment to stop and really think, we realize they aren’t so life-threatening after all.
Recognizing the difference is the first step.
Adapting is the next.
Forgotten materials and missed assignments are challenging, but fixable.
Changing schools is hard but not insurmountable.
The sooner we anticipate and roll with change, the less anxious we will feel.
“There’s another thing you can count on.”I whisper to her as I tuck her into bed.
Her name was Linda Houghten but I called her “Linda Hoe” because I hated her with a passion.
My mom was inherently a saver. As a child, we lived on bare minimums so that my mom could put enough away for a better future. She was the CEO of a software company- a black sheep in a male-dominated industry. She was inspirational. A badass. When business was struggling, she and my step-dad went without paychecks to keep the company afloat but her savings stayed put.
Her scrimping paid off- the business became extremely successful and so was she- a sought-after keynote speaker across the country. So, when she finally had saved enough to redecorate our 80K house, she hired the best.
Enter Linda Houghten.
The woman who wanted to change everything.
Generally, I’m not a vindictive or hateful person. I think carrying hate is more exhausting for the bearer than the target. But if I were to see Linda in person right now, I can’t say I’d give her a hug.
And it’s all because she made our house more beautiful.
My mom’s bedroom looked like a hotel room, so did our living room.
Patterns, slip-covers, window-treatments- the whole works.
I hated it all because it was change.
I’m the kid that cried when our area code changed from 804 to 757. I’m the kid that used to tape plastic containers over the ant hills when it rained because I couldn’t bear to witness their hard word ruined in a flash.
Consistency felt safe. Change felt terrifying.
So when it came to my piano bench? I stood my ground.
She wanted to cover it with a floral material.
Hell-to-the-no.
My mom could see the hair rising on my back and knew when to fold.
No, the piano that my father had gifted me would not be touched.
And I’mmatellyallwhat-
Victory was mine.
I’d lost the rest of the house, but I’d won what deeply mattered to me:
I can feel it. A change is coming and just like the rain, there’s not much I can do about it.
My eldest will enter her first year of all-day public school next week, guaranteed to create a lasting domino effect in our household.
The dynamics between the inseparable two eldest will shift. My second-born will gravitate towards her younger sister in the absence of her idolized older sister. The eldest will return home, tired and yet frustrated at her replacement. The third sister will resent being dismissed as soon as school is over.
There will be sickness, spread like wildfire. Long, sleepless nights. Trips to the doctor. Boxes upon boxes of tissues.
And then there’s the worry of releasing my 6 year-old to the big, ugly world. The one where bullies exist and feelings get hurt. Out from the shelter of her mother, her home and her little private preschool, she will be vulnerable to the wolves.
I can only hope I’ve taught her well.
To be kind.
To be tough.
To be happy.
It began with that first cut of the umbilical cord. Little by little, I’ve witnessed her venture further from my womb. Becoming less of me and more of her.
We’re on a precipice and there’s no turning back. And the view, albeit daunting, is invigorating.
New Leaf Parenting 